


All Sorts of Far Away

by BinarySunrise



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Meet-Cute, Mike is a precious insecure bean, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Slow Burn, and like a shitload of innuendo, and suggestive content, because that's what i'm about son, but lots of fluff to balance it!, popular!El, shameless romcom material, so much pining… - Freeform, some slightly heavy material, things will probably get steamy later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 12:06:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BinarySunrise/pseuds/BinarySunrise
Summary: Eleanor Hopper is a quiet, pretty cheerleader with more than a few mysteries in her past.  Mike is a nerd with a secret crush on her.  She has more walls in place than the popular crowd cares to tear down, and he’s more than a little paranoid about reaching out to girls like her, but fate still finds its ways of pushing them together.





	1. In Which a Nerd Meets a Cheerleader

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends and welcome to this shameless exercise in self indulgence. this chapter is a little shorter than i'm planning on making them if people are interested. i just wanted to get it out there and test the waters. things will probably get steamy later on if i do continue but the characters are aged up. i hope you find some enjoyment in this little meet cute experiment!

It happens because Mike is five minutes late to lunch. Biology is his period before, and today was frog dissection day, and Mike’s assigned partner is Lydia Smith, who has even less interest in frog guts than she does in weekend activities that don’t involve partying. When Mike tries to nicely request that she do her part to clean up (if he were trying to make things fair, he’d make her clean up all of it, since he completed the dissection and filled out the worksheet while she filed her nails), Lydia rolls her eyes, tells him to “fuck off, Frogface”, and leaves Mike to do it himself.

Which makes him five minutes late to lunch. By the time he approaches the party’s normal table, tray in hand, his view of Dustin and Lucas is blocked by the two cheerleaders that appear to be talking to them. 

It’s the strangest thing Mike’s seen all week. He and his friends don’t exactly run in the same circle as the Hawkins High cheerleading squad. Lydia Smith is on the squad, and Mike doesn’t think she’s ever uttered a sentence to any of them that doesn’t include a nasty nickname or slur. 

“So I was thinking, since you’re, like, pretty funny, you can come, if you want.” Cheerleader Number One is saying to Dustin. Mike can only see the back of her head, which is dirty blonde, and really doesn’t narrow down the cheerleader pool. Nor does her voice, which sounds like every other popular girl in their grade: high pitched, a bit nasally, and struggling to enunciate around a wad of gum. 

The other one is dark-haired, which does narrow the pool. Mike is pretty sure there are only two brunettes on the squad: Kimberly Evans, who’s this year’s pretty, Chinese exchange student, and Eleanor Hopper, who is also pretty, and supposedly shy. 

Not that Mike keeps track of these things. 

“So you can show up, if you want. I guess you can bring your friends. I’ll see you around, Henderson.” 

The two girls turn, and Mike runs smack into the dark-haired one, who is immediately revealed to be Eleanor Hopper. More importantly, she’s staring at him with wide, shocked eyes and dripping with Mike’s milk. A hearty portion of Sloppy Joe is mashed against her crisply-ironed blue uniform. Before Mike can even fully register just how much of his lunch has ended up on her, the other cheerleader is shouting in his face. 

“What the fuck, Wheeler? Are you capable of watching where you’re going, or do you need glasses to add to your nerd uinform? Today is a fucking game day, you fuckwad, and now you’ve ruined her fucking uniform. You should pay to dry-clean that at least, and Ellie should—“

“Camille.” Eleanor cuts off her friend’s furious rant, and Mike can feel his cheeks burn furiously under the eyes of every single member of the cafeteria. “Don’t yell at him. It was an accident.”

Her voice isn’t anything like Camille’s. Mike’s never heard her speak before, since they don’t share any classes, but now that he has, he kind of wants her to narrate his life for him. Her voice is velvet soft, sweet without seeming affected, and so genuinely sympathetic his blush deepens even further. 

“Uh,” he says intelligently, trying to summon up the words to apologize properly and failing. 

“I’m sorry about your lunch,” Eleanor says in the same, gentle voice, seemingly unconcerned with the Sloppy Joe sliding down her uniform now that she’s gotten over the initial shock. “Can I buy you a new one, please?”

Mike snaps out of his stupor. 

“No, no, this is completely my fault, I’m so sorry. I should’ve watched where I was going. I’ll give you money to dry clean your clothes, I swear.” 

“That’s not gonna do shit for her, Wheeler. Game day is today,” Camille interjects again, hands on her hips. Her green eyes are narrowed in utter disdain, and Mike feels like something picked from the bottom of her crisp, white sneaker under her glare. “In case you weren’t aware what that means, it means she needs her fucking uniform today, and you’ve ruined it.” 

“Stop being dramatic,” Eleanor chides her, no fire to her voice. “If I clean it off now, it should be fine. And if not, I’m sure Coach has extras. It really was my fault. I was the one who turned around too quickly, not you.” 

“Un-fucking-believable,” Camille huffs, looking between them as if she can’t believe Eleanor isn’t stabbing Mike’s eyes out with one of the jeweled bobby pins struggling to hold back her long, honey-brown curls. She turns back to Dustin, pointing viciously. “Saturday at nine p.m. sharp, Henderson. I’m not gonna send you a reminder. You better give her money for dry cleaning, Wheeler.” 

She stalks off. Mike can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when she’s finally gone, leaving him alone (well, as alone as they can be with most of the eyes in the cafeteria still fixed on them) with Eleanor. She still doesn’t look angry, which is kind of a miracle. If she wanted to shout at him too, she’d be within her rights to.

“It really is my fault,” Mike tries again, finding it easier to speak in complete sentences now that he’s not in danger of being cussed out. “I am so, so sorry. Let me get some napkins, I’ll help you clean up.”

“That’s right, Mike, help her ‘clean up’,” Dustin parrots back to him with a shit-eating grin. Mike’s blush creeps into his neck. 

“I mean, if you want help, that is,” he amends quickly, feeling like an idiot. She probably thinks he’s hitting on her, trying for an excuse to grope her or something. It hadn’t even crossed Mike’s mind until Dustin was Dustin about it. And now Eleanor, who really is pretty and almost definitely a nice person since she’s not justifiably yelling at him, probably thinks he’s a total creep. 

“Help would be nice,” Eleanor says, completely surprising him. “If you’re sure you don’t mind? And I really can buy you another lunch.”

For a moment, Mike can only stare again. She wants him to help clean her up. She wants to buy him a second lunch. This probably means she doesn’t think he’s a creep.

Still, Mike can’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop. He’s been called Frogface and worse by girls like her long enough to know there’s always another shoe. 

“Okay,” he says warily, still avoiding staring at her directly, like she’s a soft-voiced, curly-haired sun he’s afraid might blind him. “Um. Do you want me to get some wet napkins, or…”

“I think it would be easier if we went to the bathroom,” Eleanor suggests. This time, Mike does stare at her, his disbelief increasing by the second. Bathroom. As in the girl’s bathroom. As in a Highly Forbidden Area he’s definitely going to get called a creep for willingly venturing into.

 _It’s a trap!_ Admiral Ackbar helpfully chimes in his head, cementing Mike’s desire to get out of this situation as fast as possible. 

“For soap? It might help. And look, you have some on you, too,” Eleanor points out. Mike looks to where she’s pointing and discovers that, yes, some of his lunch has migrated to his sweater. 

Still. Girl’s bathroom. The other shoe is definitely going to drop. 

“Mike? Are you okay?” 

His name in Eleanor’s gentle voice snaps Mike back to reality. He sighs, setting the ruined tray down on the table. Dustin receives it with a mock salute, still smirking at him. 

“Yes, Michael, are you okay? You’re looking a little dazed there,” he says with a masterful look of feigned concern. Mike glares at him. There’s really no way he’s going to get out of this. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go,” he says, a lot more brusquely than he meant to sound. 

“Have a nice time in the bathroom ‘cleaning up’,” Lucas calls after him, voice heavy with innuendo.

Mike flips off the general direction of his voice and ignores the laughter that follows.

The hallways are, for once, silent and a welcome change from the din of the cafeteria. Mike follows Eleanor silently, quietly grateful that she’s not trying to make conversation. He’s still halfway waiting for her to start laughing at him, or to call him a nasty creep pervert loud enough for everyone to hear. He stares resolutely at the lockers he passes to avoid looking at her. When Mike does glance her way, he catches the bounce of her golden-brown curls against her delicate shoulders, and the flash of blue pleated skirt against tan legs. He looks away again very quickly, wondering if he’s ever going to manage to stop blushing.

“If you don’t want to come inside, I understand,” Eleanor says when they reach the girl’s bathroom. “But let me bring some soapy towels out to clean your sweater with, okay? I don’t want it to be ruined.” 

She’s so damn nice. It has to be an act, there’s no way any girl as popular as she is can be as nice as she’s being to a guy like Mike without playing some other game.  
Still, he doesn’t want to be an asshole and say no when she is being so nice to him. That would be real dick move, and Mike would rather be a creep than a dick. 

“No, it’s fine. I just, uh. Can you make sure there’s no one in there before I go barging in?” 

The corner of Eleanor’s mouth quirks up. 

“Good idea.” A moment later, she ducks her head back out the door, gesturing for him to follow. “All clear.”

Mike follows like he’s walking to his execution. The girl’s bathroom has the exact same tiling as the boy’s, and looks almost identical, minus the urinals. Mike relaxes a little bit, having feared a crime scene of, like, used tampons and lots of makeup stuff like Nancy used to use scattered around. The normalcy of it is a huge relief. 

Eleanor is already grabbing paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them. When she reaches for Mike’s sweater, he flinches back instinctively. 

“Sorry,” she says. “Do you—um, I can…”

Still no other shoe. Come to think of it, Mike’s never once heard of Eleanor Hopper being mean to anyone, ever. Mostly he’s just heard that she keeps to herself. Maybe his real asshole move was judging her prematurely. Paranoia isn’t a good personality trait, even if it is justified. 

“It’s fine,” he says, hoping he sounds encouraging and normal. Less like an overly jumpy mouthbreather. Eleanor smiles at him, a smile he can’t avoid looking at now she’s in so close proximity to him and oh, fuck, she really is pretty. Her big, doe-shaped eyes, which had just looked brown before, actually have gold flecks in them, and she has the most delicate, adorable button nose, and—

 _Get it together, Wheeler, now you really are acting like a creep._ Eleanor’s tiny hands are reaching forward to dab gingerly at his sweater. Mike can smell something that reminds him of vanilla ice cream on her. Her eyes lower in concentration, the fan of her eyelashes long and dark against her cheeks. 

“It’s okay for me to get this wet?” she asks. Mike nods, not trusting his voice. Eleanor pats a little more firmly, the sharp, clean smell of soap at war with that vanilla ice cream smell. 

Her ministrations seem to go on for an eternity and a blink of the eye at the same time. When her hands finally retreat, Mike lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“All done,” Eleanor announces cheerfully. “Look—“ she directs him towards the mirror, pointing at the affected area. “Good as new?”

She’s right, Mike can’t tell there was ever anything on the sweater. In a way, she did such a good job it’s unfortunate. The sweater is a hideous one given to him by his grandmother on Christmas that his mom insists he wear once in a while, and a brutal death by Sloppy Joe would have finally given Mike a solid excuse to dump it. But Eleanor looks so pleased with herself, and the expression is so pretty Mike can only smile helplessly in the face of it. 

“Yeah, it looks great. Should I do you?” He immediately grimaces, blushing so brightly he can see his face shine pink in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. Eleanor’s dainty eyebrows shift upward every so slightly, her smile looking a little more mischievous. “I mean…” Fuck. This is why he can’t trust himself to speak. He should only stick to nodding and shaking his head from here on out. “Do you want me to help?” 

“Just hand me wet napkins, and I can do it,” she says. 

It seems to take forever, wetting and soaping up napkin after napkin and waiting for her to clean herself off. When she’s finally done, she’s free of stains, but she’s also soaking wet, and Mike feels terrible. He doesn’t want her to walk around in a wet shirt all day because of him. 

“Do you want to borrow a sweatshirt?” he blurts out. Eleanor turns to him, her head slightly cocked. Mike swallows, refusing to let himself back down now that he’s put the offer out there. He’s not being weird, just nice. It’s the right thing to do, considering its his fault her shirt’s dripping onto the marble-top counter. “That doesn’t look like it’s going to dry any time soon, and I have a sweatshirt—a clean sweatshirt in my locker. If you, uh, if you want it.”

“You don’t need it?” Eleanor asks. She sounds so genuinely concerned about potentially keeping Mike from piling his linty old sweatshirt on top of his awful sweater. Mike gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“Nah. It’s only September, and as you can see, I’m all sweatered-up.”

Sweatered-up. Fucking hell. Mike’s sure he’s said dumber sounding things in the past, but he can’t for the life of him think of any right now. 

Eleanor lets out a small, tinkling laugh, and Mike immediately decides that if saying record-breakingly stupid sounding things can get her to laugh like that again, he’ll gladly be as much of a wastoid as he can. Her laugh is as adorable as the rest of her. 

“Okay. A sweatshirt would be nice.” 

Mike practically runs to get to and from his locker as fast as possible. The sweatshirt in question, when he finds it smooshed underneath textbooks, crumpled up homework, and what he sure as hell hopes isn’t a pair of dirty gym socks, is a little mustier smelling than he anticipated. Mike swears under his breath, shaking it out as vigorously as he can. He can’t exactly just tell Eleanor ‘nope, sorry, I can’t lend you my sweatshirt because it’s actually really gross and I’m afraid if I give it to you you’ll realize how gross I am’, and he doesn’t carry around any of the awful-smelling colognes some of the football players rub themselves down with to overpower its overwhelming teenage boy smell. 

Maybe it only smells gross to him because he’s nervous about giving it to her. Maybe she won’t notice anything about it all except that it’s warm and dry. Mike has no other choice except to hope that’s the case, and run back with sweatshirt in hand. 

She’s waiting exactly where he left her, her eyes lighting up expectantly when she sees the sweatshirt in hand. 

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” 

“Of course not. I don’t want you to be wet all day,” Mike says, and winces again, sure he’s going to catch on fire from how hard he’s blushing. This time, El turns a little pink herself, two bright stripes of rosy color appearing high on her cheekbones. 

“Okay,” she says quietly, taking the sweatshirt from him. 

“Do you want me to…” Mike gestures vaguely towards the door, not sure what exactly what he’s asking. 

“No, you can stay,” El says. “I’m just going to—“

She gestures towards the door of the largest stall. Mike nods way too enthusiastically, and her half-smile returns before the door swings shut, obscuring her from view. Then Mike’s left alone, trying to ignore the dawning realization that she’s undressing one flimsy metal door away. 

Nope, nope, not going to think about that. 

Thankfully, Eleanor emerges quickly, his sweatshirt comically baggy on her tiny frame, a bundle of wet clothing in hand. Mike glances at it out of curiosity before he can stop himself and catches a glimpse of a strap that’s unmistakable if you have an older sister. She’s wearing his sweatshirt and she’s naked under it. Or not naked, but—Mike forces that train of thought to crash, thinking of the least attractive things he can. Obi Wan and Yoda dancing the waltz. The time he accidentally put his hand in one of Holly’s diapers. Dustin doing that purring thing he thinks is cool.

“Thank you, Mike,” Eleanor says. Mike meets her eyes shakily, hoping she didn’t notice the split second his eyes wandered. If she did, she gives no indication, smiling warmly at him in a way that makes Mike’s stomach flutter. “I’ll give it back to you…I guess it’s Friday, so Monday, if that’s okay? I can bring it to you over the weekend, if you need it, I don’t want—”

“Eleanor,” Mike cuts her off, wanting to tell her it’s fine. He notices her button nose wrinkle slightly at the use of her name, and smiles a bit. It’s the same reaction he has when people call him Michael. “You don’t like your name either?” he asks. 

“It’s my middle name. Jane is my first, and that’s worse,” Eleanor explains. She’s right: she’s definitely not a Jane, and she’s not an Eleanor either. Inspiration strikes him. 

“You could go by El,” Mike suggests. “Like I go by Mike, short for Michael.”

The smile Eleanor—El—graces him with turns the scattering of butterflies in Mike’s stomach to an army. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. She’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. 

“I like that,” she says. For a moment, they both stand there, smiling at each other. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on Mike’s part, but her cheeks still seem a little pink. “Thank you, Mike. Monday. I promise.”

“Yeah. Monday,” Mike says, his voice cracking. 

“See you,” El says cheerfully, giving him one last smile as she leaves. For a moment, Mike can only stand there, smiling to himself like a wastoid. Then he remembers he’s standing alone in the girl’s bathroom, and runs out like the floor’s lava. 

El’s retreating back is the last thing he sees in the hallway, his sweatshirt almost swallowing up her cheerleading skirt. A wink of gold catches his eye, and Mike’s eyes catch the sparkle of an anklet flashing with the motion of her clean, white shoe. His stomach does what feels like a somersault, Hawkins High suddenly seeming like a much friendlier place than it had before lunch. 

Monday can’t come soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> el's ankle bracelet is of course a reference to beverly marsh's in IT which ben notices and heart-eyes over! 
> 
> i dearly love everyone who supports me on this story and every single one of your comments, bookmarks, and kudos mean the damn world to me <3


	2. In Which Mike Wants to Be Han Solo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again friends! i feel like i need to explain a thing real quick and thing is that i have awful, terrible, no good anxiety that makes me do silly things like feel all paralyzed with fear when i post something because i irrationally fear people will yell at me. or radio silence me. which is worse? who knows.
> 
> so the deal was that i went on vacation and was all frightened to check this and came back and saw all your lovely comments?? it was a surreal moment. thank you all so so much and i'm definitely mildly less terrified this time around even though it's partially el's POV which i really hope i didn't mess up
> 
> so thank you so much for your kudos, comments, bookmarks, all of it!! it was the best new years present, seriously. i hope this chapter is enjoyable, and if you got any of them questions, comments, concerns, i'd be happy to hear 'em!

“Well, at least your uniform wasn’t ruined,” Camille sighs, pulling a white tank top over her damp head. They had lost the game pretty badly, and everyone was glum about it. El had already overheard Troy making plans to get drunk enough to soothe his damaged ego, and had tried her best to avoid doing something that might make him notice her, like scoffing. He has only just started to leave her alone and El is really hoping he’ll forget she exists soon and make passes at greener pastures. 

Like Camille, who’s undeniably prettier than her. El doesn’t really mind. Being the prettiest only ever gets you into more trouble. She’s happy to fly under the radar. 

“You shouldn’t have been so mean to Mike,” El replies, trying her best to comb her fingers through her hair. It’s humid out, which means it had frizzed up all throughout the day, and the combination of that and sweat is making her long for the safety of her own shower. One of her rules is to never shower in the locker rooms. El tried it once, on her first day of practice. She had stood under the hot spray and had never felt so cold, her whole body shaking with fear and…

She doesn’t want to think about it. El never wants to make herself vulnerable in that way to anyone, and being naked—emotionally or physically—around people she can’t trust is a thought that makes every inch of her flesh break out in the worst kind of goosebumps. Which was why she’d been so surprised earlier that changing in a stall while Mike was only a few feet away seemed like the most natural thing in the world. 

He had even offered to leave, and she had told him he could stay. El hadn’t even done it out of necessity. She’d looked at him, with his freckles and big, cautious dark eyes, and felt safe. El felt like Mike had wanted her to be comfortable, that it was important to him. It was something unheard of for her, trusting like that so quickly. 

“Ugh, Wheeler,” Camille groans, now lacing up her shoes. “I dunno why the hell you’re suddenly defending him. He’s a nerd who thinks he’s better than everyone else because he can do, like, calculus or whatever. And he looks like a fucking frog, which is kind of gross.”

“Not as gross as Troy,” El whispers under her breath, turning so Camille can’t see her face. She doesn’t know why she keeps defending Mike, except that there was something about how sweet he was to her that gives her the same feeling she gets when Hop puts her blankets in the dryer before she goes to bed during the winter, just so El can burrow into warm sheets while he reads to her. 

Except Hop doesn’t also make her cheeks feel hot, and El doesn’t look at him like she’s trying to count freckles. 

“He was nice, and he helped me clean up. And you were the one who wanted to talk to his friend.”

She turns just in time to see Camille’s cheeks redden. 

“That’s different. Dustin’s actually funny. He’s, like, a pet that performs tricks or something. I bet all of Wheeler’s jokes are based on the periodic table.” 

The smile that steals across El’s face is mostly unconscious. She can picture Mike cracking dorky jokes about the periodic table. El would laugh at them, too. She’s good at laughing at things that aren’t funny—it’s a necessary skill, if you want to be a good person and popular at the same time—but she has a feeling Mike might be funnier than Camille gives him credit for, if you gave him the chance.

“You invited him to your party. That seems like he’s more than just a funny distraction,” El points out gently, wanting to get the subject off of Mike. She doesn’t really want to talk about him with her friends. Not because they think he’s a loser, or anything but because…because talking to him was pure, somehow. When he smiled at her, El felt like he was smiling at the same girl Hop smiles at when she brings home a good report card or chides him about watching his chloresterol. She wasn’t used to feeling like that girl at school—she often feels like two different people. The Real El, who sometimes pushes her dresser in front of her bedroom door when she can’t even stand listening to Hop hum in the kitchen because she needs to be completely alone, and Popular El, who puts on lip gloss with a little mirror in her locker and pretends she doesn’t mind it when boys look at her chest instead of her face when she talks.

Mike looked at her face the whole time, and El had felt—well, she doesn’t know quite how she felt. She just knows she doesn’t want to share it with anyone. Not yet. 

“Well, he’ll be good entertainment. No one wants to laugh at Troy’s rapey fucking jokes for the whole time,” Camille is saying, cinching the laces of her other shoe.

“I’d rather listen to periodic table jokes than those,” El agrees. Camille shoots her a look, but doesn’t bring Mike back up. 

“Come on, let’s go. Is your dad picking you up, or do you wanna come home with me and watch some movies?”

El hesitates. Truthfully, Hop is picking her up, but she does like having sleepovers with Camille. Her edges soften a little when they’re alone at her house, or sometimes with Jenny Hayes, who’s genuinely nice. They paint their nails and watch Sixteen Candles and horror movies, and El feels like they’re real friends, instead of just teammates. 

But she slept over with Camille last game day, and the quiet moments with Mike in the bathroom earlier make El less enthusiastic about gossiping with Camille and Jenny. She’d rather go to Benny’s and eat a double cheeseburger and strawberry milkshake. 

“My dad, but we can next time,” El answers, grabbing her things and following Camille until they’re back outside, the crowd much more dispersed than it would be if they had won. 

“Next time, then. And take a shower. You smell like grass. I still can’t believe Coach doesn’t make you do it. We cheerleaders aren’t supposed to let anyone know we sweat, y’know.” 

“I have special permission,” El reminds her. She catches view of Hop standing by the bleachers, looking at the lingering members of the football team with obvious distaste. “I have to go,” she says to Camille, who shrugs and runs off to where Stacey and her group are talking. 

El takes a moment before she walks over to her dad, scanning the lingering people with what she pretends is neutral curiosity. She’s not looking for Mike, exactly—she doesn’t think he’s the type to go to football games at all, and she doesn’t blame him—but okay, sure. She’s kind of, sort of, maybe looking for Mike. But El doesn’t really expect to find him. 

Which is why she can’t help her surprised gasp when her eyes light on a lanky, dark haired figure dressed in an adorably ugly sweater El couldn’t forget if she tried. He’s even standing far enough to the side of where her dad is that she could go over and talk to him without Hopper noticing—which is very important if she wants to avoid the Hopper Inquisition.

El’s feet are moving towards him before she can stop them. Going over to talk to him is not a good idea. She’s definitely not going to do it while she’s all sweaty. She just wants to see him closer up, is all. 

Her plan of stealth is ruined when a familiar, hulking figure appears in front of her, fully blocking her Mike Vantage Point. 

“Well, if it isn’t little Hopper,” Troy says, his grin immediately doing something to El’s stomach that’s the opposite of what she felt like in the bathroom earlier. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and it takes every ounce of will she has not to follow the automatic command that’s surging through every nerve in her body to run. El doesn’t want to be near that grin, and doesn’t want anything to do with what it implies. 

“Excuse me,” she says as politely as she can, praying that she can make it away from Troy without acting on her flight or fight response. 

“Now wait just a moment there, little Hopper, before you go hopping off. I wanted to congratulate you on your performance. You looked pretty cute out there,” Troy continues, ignoring her obvious discomfort. He’s still going for suave, but El knows that can only last so long before he gets angry.

She really, really doesn’t want to deal with angry. 

“It must not be worth congratulating, since we lost,” she says, trying to discretely nudge her way past him. Troy lets out a sharp, wolfish laugh. El recoils from the sound, trying to ignore the way her vision is tunneling with her need to get away from him. 

She takes a deep breath, and thinks of Mike’s sweatshirt in her bag. Troy is still standing there when El opens her eyes, but he looks less like a giant and more like the smelly, obnoxious teenage boy he is. 

“That’s cute, Hopper. You’re cute. You wanna come with us and have a nice little chat about the game, and how you being cute is a distraction?”

“I don’t think you want to chat with me now,” El says more firmly, forcing her voice to be louder. “I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t mind,” Troy says, and his smile is definitely a leer now. “In fact, I can think of a few ways to get you even sweatier.”

“Please let me by,” El says sharply, her hands balling into fists. Her voice is loud enough that Troy startles a bit, taking a half step back. El focuses on deep breaths, preparing for a confrontation she really doesn’t want to have. 

“El?” 

Hearing her new nickname—the one that fits her like a second skin, even though she’s only had it for a day—from Mike’s voice is like a cold glass of water at the end of a long, hot cheer practice. El lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, turning gratefully towards the sound of his voice.

“I need to go say hello to Mike. Excuse me, please,” she says to Troy coldly, and all but shoves past him, feeling much taller than her tiny five-foot-one. 

“Wheeler? You want to say hello to Frogface Faggot Wheeler?” Troy is saying incredulously behind her, but El doesn’t care. She all but runs at Mike, who is looking at her with wide eyes.

“Hi, Mike,” El says, beaming at him. Mike smiles back like he’s forgotten how to move his facial muscles, his cheeks pink. El’s own smile falters, confusion clouding her relief. Maybe she interrupted him and his friends and caught him off guard. Or maybe he just wasn’t expecting her to come barreling towards him like that. She hopes she didn’t annoy him by coming over. “I didn’t know you liked football,” she says, more tentatively this time.

“Uh.” Mike scratches the back of his head. El blinks at him. Lucas Sinclair, who’s behind him, elbows Dustin. Both of them are laughing at something. El turns to look at them, even more confused. 

Are they laughing at her? She hopes they aren’t. Camille laughs at her all the time, but Mike’s friends are different. They’re smart, like Mike. She doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of them. 

“I don’t,” Mike says loudly. “Like football, I mean. I just…um…wanted to make sure your uniform dried okay.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says a redheaded girl El knows by sight, but not by name. “You might as well just tell her you’re looking for jerk-off material, Wheeler, it’d be more believable. 

“Shut up, Max,” Mike says angrily, his cheeks pink, and El blushes too. She’s used to people making dirty jokes around her (and about her), and usually laughing at how innocent she is. It’s a feeling she doesn’t like, but at least Mike doesn’t seem to like it either. He looks almost…concerned, again. Like he doesn’t want her to be uncomfortable. 

Maybe she hasn’t annoyed him after all. 

And El can’t forget that when Mike had accidentally slipped into innuendo earlier, it hadn’t felt bad or scary at all. El had still blushed, but it was a good kind of blush. A kind she wouldn’t mind feeling again, as long as it was from Mike. 

“It dried fine,” she assures him, collecting herself. “No stains. I, um…” 

She needs to come up with something to say, something that’s not ‘I didn’t want to deal with Troy so I came over here as an excuse’. Something normal, and hopefully nice. “I saw you and realized I can return your sweatshirt now, if you want it. I was going to wash it for you over the weekend, but if you need it back—“

“No, no, I don’t need it at all, really. I mean, it’s totally fine. You keep it as long as you want,” Mike says, his words coming out very fast. 

“I imagine she has a sweatshirt of her own, Michael,” Dustin says, looking amused. 

El does have several sweatshirts of her own, but she’d much rather wear Mike’s. It feels cozy, and safe. Like she’s all wrapped up in those soft, quiet minutes from the bathroom, when Mike had been so nice to her. 

“I want to wash it for you,” El says decisively. “I was wearing it after our pre-game practice, and I probably got it all sweaty.” 

“That’s okay,” Mike reassures her. “It is a sweatshirt, after all.” 

A funny look crosses his face, like he’s just heard someone’s bone break, and his friends erupt into laughter again. El just keeps smiling at him, wondering why he’s acting so oddly.

“That’s a good point,” she agrees, hoping it’s the right thing to say. She still doesn’t understand why all his friends are laughing at her. “But I’m still going to wash it before I give it back to you.”

“You—“ Mike’s voice cracks. “You do that,” he tries again. El nods, and there’s a moment of silence. She wouldn’t find it particularly uncomfortable except for the fact that Dustin, Lucas, the redheaded girl, and Will Byers are still all sniggering. Mike seems to agree, as he gives them all a nasty look.

“Do you have any plans for after the game, El?” he asks her, ignoring his friends. El shrugs, looking away from his big, dark eyes. 

“If we won, I’d probably go out with Camille and the rest of the squad, but we lost, so I’m probably just going to get dinner with my dad,” she explains. 

“Oh, yeah, your dad’s the chief. I forgot. It’s weird thinking about him coming to high school football games,” Mike says. El looks back up at him, and the funny swoopy feeling from earlier, in the bathroom comes back. He’s—well, he’s very pretty. There’s no other word for it. El remembers seeing Mike’s sister Nancy, while she still went to Hawkins High, back when El had first been adopted by Hop. Nancy had been the prettiest girl El had ever seen, and Mike shares that strange, almost feminine sharpness Nancy’s face had. 

El doesn’t know why it makes her want to look away again, except that she doesn’t want Mike to know she thinks he’s pretty. 

“He doesn’t really like coming. He almost didn’t let me try out for the squad, when I started school.”

“Really? Why not?” Mike asks, like he’s genuinely curious to know her answer. “I mean, being a cheerleader is probably the best thing you can be at this school, if you’re talking about the social hierarchy.” 

“Mike just means that he wishes he were a cheerleader,” the redhead chimes in again, her face bright red from holding back the full force of her laughter.  
“He wants to wear the little blue skirt.” 

“Lucas, I swear, if you don’t make your girlfriend shut up,” Mike threatens. The deeper, more authoritative tone of his voice, makes El feel warm again, the swoopy feeling in her stomach growing. 

“He mostly just doesn’t like me ‘doing little flips and showing the whole school my underwear’,” she says, repeating Hop’s exact words from when she first said she’d like to go out for cheerleading tryouts. Mike makes a half-choking noise, his freckles disappearing under the deep red spreading across his cheeks. “But he’s okay with it since it makes me happy,” El concludes. 

“Cool,” Mike says, and runs a hand through his hair again. El waits for him to say something else, and shrugs when he just stands there, staring at her. 

“Well, I should go,” she says. “See you on Monday, Mike.”

“Right, Monday,” Mike repeats, face still pink. “See you Monday, El.” 

El has to force herself not to look over her shoulder at him as she walks over to wear Hop is standing, still wearing his police uniform and getting some jittery looks from a nearby group of stoners on the bleachers because of it. He does a little half-smile when he sees her, the one that means, ‘I still don’t like you doing cartwheels in that skirt but I’m proud of you anyway’. 

“Hey, kid. You looked good out there,” he says, giving one curl a tug. El bats him away, grinning when he ruffles her hair. “You ready to get some food?” 

“Maybe I should shower first,” El says, knowing from how cool the wind feels on her head that her hair is still pretty sweaty. 

“I don’t think Benny minds if you stink up his diner. You’ve been doing it long enough for him to have gotten used to it.”

“Okay,” El agrees. Truthfully, she hadn’t realized how hungry she was, her stomach being too overwhelmed with swoopy Mike feelings to truly register that she’d had a hard workout, and hadn’t even eaten lunch.

As she follows Hop to the familiar police cruiser, El unzips her bag just enough to feel the sweatshirt folded lovingly next to her notebooks. She is going to wash the sweatshirt, but part of her wants to wear it every second until then. Giving it back to Mike on Monday is going to be harder than it should be. 

But she’ll get to see Mike again, and that’s reward enough. 

……………………………………………

Mike isn’t late to lunch on Monday, in part because he didn’t have to work with Lydia Smith in Biology, but mostly because he’d spent the weekend trying to do things other than count down the minutes until he got to talk to El Hopper again and utterly failing. He’d assumed she was going to give him his sweatshirt at lunch, but maybe that’s not the case. Maybe she’s decided she doesn’t want to be seen with a loser nerd like him again and is just going to stuff it in his locker or something. Not that she could even get into his locker.

Maybe she forgot about it. It’s a dead certainty that El, who undoubtedly has tons of guys losing their shit over her (like Troy, who’s an asshole, but is on the football team) isn’t going to be going over every detail of their two interactions like some ten-year-old girl pulling petals off a flower to play “he loves me, he loves me not.”

It was definitely she loves me not, in this case. Mike knows thinking about her like this is just going to get him into trouble, but he can’t help himself. He keeps seeing her, hair damp from all those flips she’d been doing, her skin seeming to glow instead of just being sweaty. 

“Calm down, Mike,” Will tells him. “She’ll be here, and you’re shaking the table.”

“The man can’t help having nerves,” says Dustin, looking at Mike with something approaching pity. “He’s got a crush on one of the prettiest, most popular girls in the school. No wonder he’s this close to pissing himself.”

“Don’t have a crush,” Mike mumbles, staring bitterly at his sandwich. Max scoffs, her smug smile reminding Mike of all the reasons why he didn’t like her when she first befriended Dustin and Lucas. 

“Oh, Eleanor, you can keep my sweatshirt as long as you want, and even keep it under your pillow. You can sweat all over it, baby. It is a sweatshirt, after all.” 

Mike scowls at her, ignoring Lucas and Dustin’s galls of laughter. Even Will is trying to avoid smiling. 

“I did not sound like that, and I don’t have a crush on her,” he snaps. “She’s just a…a friendly acquaintance.”

“Yeah, because you’re always so eager for all your friendly acquaintances to wear your clothes, huh?” 

Mike ignores Lucas, and focuses very hard on looking like he doesn’t have feelings for El. Which is totally true, because there’s definitely no way he has a crush on her after talking to her for maybe fifteen minutes at most. She’s just a normal, pretty girl he had two conversations with. And one wasn’t even really a conversation, since he was just helping her clean up. 

“Honestly, Mike, I can’t even blame you. I know too well what it is to be enamored with a cheerleader who will probably never stop looking at me like a vaguely amusing slug. At least the one you like is nice,” Dustin points out.

Mike doesn’t argue on that. He’d much rather have a crush on El than on her bitchy, blonde friend, in this totally hypothetical situation where he has to have a crush on a cheerleader. 

“She is,” Max says. “I mean, everyone says so. She’s not on the squad because she wants, like, social points, she’s on it because she’s actually good.” 

That was true, too. Mike had watched her too carefully at the game, pretending he was really just deeply immersed in watching meatheads tackle each other. There was something different about the way El moved, something almost supernatural. She seemed totally weightless, like she stayed in the air just a little longer than the other cheerleaders, and landed far too lightly. Mike could have watched her for hours. 

“And she looks like Princess Leia,” Will says with a nod. Mike stares at him, feeling like his brain’s exploded. “What? She does.”

“Dude. She totally does,” Dustin agrees. Mike can only keep staring for a moment, dumbfounded, because they’re right. El totally looks like a curly-haired Princess Leia (and what guy his age didn’t have a crush on Leia?), with her big brown eyes and delicate frame. 

“I guess she kind of does,” he says out loud, trying not to sound too deeply invested in this comparison. El is just El, too, so kind it seems like it has to be a joke at first, and with the softest voice he’s ever heard.

“You’d better hope you’re Han in this scenario and not Luke, flyboy,” Max says, aggressively pointing at him with a chicken nugget. Lucas takes the opportunity and grabs it from her, sticking it into his mouth before she can grab it back. “Do that again, and I’m breaking up with you.”

“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll always be your little chicken nugget.” Lucas leans back and grins at her, not looking particularly concerned. 

“I can be a Han,” Mike announces. Sure, he doesn’t exactly look like Harrison Ford, or talk like Harrison Ford, or look good in a vest like Harrison Ford, but how hard can it be to rugged and, well, ruggedly manly? “Right?” he asks, looking to Will for reassurance.

“Sure you can,” says Will kindly. 

“Don’t lie to him, Will, he’s a total Luke. Whiny, wimpy, kind of girly looking—“

“If anyone’s Luke, it’s you, Lucas,” Mike retorts. “It’s even in your name, man.”

“Nah, everything about me says ‘cool scoundrel’. I’m totally Han.”

“In your dreams!”

“Mike?” 

They all freeze, a chicken nugget falling from Max’s fingers to the floor. Mike turns very slowly, like he’s expecting it to be Michael Myers standing behind him instead of a pretty girl he keeps making a fool of himself in front of.

El’s wearing one of those frilly dresses Nancy used to love when she was, like, in the eighth grade, and it looks so cute on her it’s almost criminal. Her hair is down, little baby hairs flying around her face, and that anklet Mike can’t help but keep noticing is now dangling over a dainty, white leather sandal. She has that vanilla smell again, too. And she’s obviously waiting for him to say something.

“Hi, El,” Mike says, feeling quite proud of himself when his voice comes out smooth. It’s a definitely an improvement from just saying “Uh”. El smiles, her face lighting up.

“Hi, Mike. Do you mind if I—” She gestures the empty seat that’s always next to Mike, since no one sits next to them because they’re nerds. Mike’s never been more grateful to have a quiet lunch table.

“Of course not, sure, go ahead,” Mike says. His words are doing the thing where they come out too quickly again, tumbling out of his mouth recklessly. El sits very carefully, like she’s afraid the chair will break under her weight. As if it could. She can’t weight more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. 

Mike realizes she’s looking at his friends and jump-starts his manners. 

“This is Dustin, and Lucas, and that’s Max. They’re dating, and kind of gross about it.”

“You’re not one to talk about being gross, you sweatshirt-lending flyboy,” Max says cheerfully, giving El a little wave. El smiles back hesitantly. 

“And I’m Will,” Will jumps in smoothly. “It’s nice to meet you, Eleanor.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” El says, “But I prefer El, if you don’t mind.”

Mike suddenly feels like ten Harrison Fords. She likes the nickname he gave her. She likes it so much she’s introducing herself that way.

It seems too good to be true. She’s too good to be true. She’s smiling at Will and there’s something sparkly and the color of maraschino cherries on her lips. Her nose is just as cute from the side as it is head-on. 

“I have your sweatshirt, all clean,” El says, unzipping her bag and pulling out a carefully folded wad of blue fabric. Mike takes it from her, jolting when her pinkie brushes his thumb as if burned. He stares down at his old, linty sweatshirt, the place where her skin met his tingling, and wishing he could somehow feel every moment El spent wearing it. 

That was probably a creepy thing to think, but a part of Mike can’t stop thinking about that flash of pale pink bra strap, the fact that all that skin was just casually touching something of his. Maybe she even wore it again, at home. Maybe she put it straight in the washer and didn’t touch it again. Maybe Mike is just a creepy, overly obsessive loser. 

He swallows heavily, forcing all wandering thoughts out of his mind. 

“Thanks, El,” he says. El nods, reaching into her bag again.

“I got you something else, too,” she says, withholding a bowl of something wrapped in tinfoil. “I felt bad about ruining your lunch, so I made you cookies. They might be a little burnt. I forgot to set the timer. If you don’t want them, that’s okay.”

She’s so damn nice. How is it even possible for someone to be so nice? Even Dustin looks a little awed at the free cookies, staring at El like she’s an alien.

“I’m sure they’re great,” Mike says, once again succeeding in not sounding like a total wastoid. “That’s really nice of you, El, but you really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” says El matter-of-factly. “I wanted to. I should, um, probably go. Camille and Jenny are probably waiting for me.”

Will flinches slightly at Jennifer Hayes’ nickname, no doubt remembering the one, disastrous party she hosted (that the rest of them weren’t invited to) where she tried to pull Will into a game of seven minutes of heaven and he had tried to find a way to politely turn her down without outright telling her he wasn’t interested in girls. 

The fall-out of that particular night hadn’t helped any of their reputations. 

“Okay,” Mike says as casually as he can manage. He doesn’t want her to go, but he also doesn’t know how to ask her to stay. She’s popular. He can’t just ask a popular girl to eat lunch with him. She’d laugh in his face.

A smaller corner of Mike’s mind is telling him that no, El wouldn’t laugh at him, and she did make him cookies so maybe he could ask her, but the other, paranoid side is louder. 

“See you,” El says, like it’s an actual possibility Mike might get to talk to her again. He almost feels like he’s died as he watches her walk away, her dress fluttering prettily against her legs. He’s probably never going to see her again, except from afar. He’s going to spend the rest of high school feeling hopelessly, foolishly excited every time he catches a glimpse of curly brown hair, and El will probably date someone popular like Troy and forget a nerd named Mike Wheeler ever spilled his lunch on her.

The fluttery, happy feeling that had enveloped Mike all weekend vanishes as suddenly as it appeared on Friday, and he’s left in a cafeteria that’s gray as ever, and full of people who think he’s a loser.

“Well, that’s that, then,” he sighs, picking at his lunch.

“It is not,” Dustin says firmly. 

“Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to make me feel better, but I don’t even really care—“

“You look like someone killed a puppy in front of you, Mike,” says Dustin, eyebrows raised. “We all get it. You think El is an adorable fucking ray of sunshine and I’m inclined to agree with you. It’s not over. She’s not actively repulsed by you, at least.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better,” Mike says, letting himself sink even farther into feeling glum and hopeless. “We don’t have any of the same classes, so it’s not like I’m even going to get a chance to see her again.”

Dustin’s smile turns wicked.

“Luckily for you, that’s untrue. You see, I’ve got this invitation to a party El’s almost certainly going to be at, and Camille specifically stated I could bring my loser nerd friends. I believe that includes you.”

For the first time since El left, Mike looks up. 

“Party? What party?”

Dustin smirks like he thinks he holds the key to all the secrets of the universe, and begins to explain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this fic el's powers translate into athleticism! she's on the team because she's good, but she's still kind of socially awkward and weird in her own, adorable way. also i debated for a long time on what to call hop (i tried dad in the original draft but it just felt wrong and papa is gross for many reasons to me) and in the end just calling him hop seemed the best. he adopted el when she was around fourteen, so it makes sense to me that she wouldn't quite see him as a full-on parental figure. i'd love to hear differing opinions though!! 
> 
> as i map out more of this fic, i may be adding tags as needed, sooo if there are changes that's what it'll be about. also if there ever comes up anything that may be triggering you guys will be warned and the section will be marked so you can skip it! but in general i want everything to be super cute with mild angst to enhance the cuteness as needed! and to those that asked, yes, things'll get steamy but in an adorably fumbling teenage way. 
> 
> any comments or kudos are much appreciated! i just wrote five thousands words on a high from the comments on the first chapter so there's the proof in the puddin that every lovely thing you write warms the cockles of my cold gray heart. you can literally just post a string of exclamation points and i'd freak out joyfully
> 
> happy 2018 to all!! 
> 
> *also i feel like it's important for me to say i love luke skywalker with all my heart and he's easily my favorite of the original trio. but y'know, teenage boys in the 80's thought han solo was the shit. i asked my dad, he confirmed. so that's there for realism, and not because i don't love luke


	3. In Which Characterization is Further Established Before Shit Goes Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again friends, and thank you again for all your lovely support! i keep re-reading all your comments for inspiration. this chapter doesn't have any real mike/el interaction, which i'm truly sorry for, but i wanted to solidify my characterization of them a little more before the plot thickens (as much as a plot can thicken in this ridiculous, cheesy, schmoopy story), as well as establish some personality for secondary characters. i think it's really important to have developed friendships between the girls in addition to romance, so camille and jenny are in a lot of this chapter. i hope you guys enjoy it, and next chapter is gonna be more mike/el centric, i promise. 
> 
> also, the fic title comes from the cure song "catch". 
> 
> also, see the end notes for a few very mild trigger warnings. i don't want to take anyone off guard, so if you're concerned, please check. i want you all to be able to read safely and comfortably <3

It still hadn’t fully sunk in that he, Michael Wheeler, was going to be attending a party hosted by a member of the cheerleading squad. By Tuesday, he was halfway convinced Dustin’s invite was a hallucination brought on by eating too many of El’s cookies. They had not only been slightly burnt, but weirdly salty, and Mike had been determined to eat as many of them as he could just so he could tell El they were so good he ate them all. 

He ended up barely managing two thirds of the bowl, and had suffered a bout of what felt like food poisoning as a result that left him groaning in the basement and unable to do his homework.

“Honestly, Michael, where did you even get these things?” his mom had chided him, unsympathetic to Mike’s agony except to bring him Pepto-Bismal. “They’re absolutely disgusting.”

“Are not,” Mike had managed to defend, clutching his stomach and hoping it would stop gurgling.

“Look at the state they put you in! I’m tossing them before Holly gets her hands on them.”

Mike had been too sick to protest her careless disposal of cookies El Hopper had baked for him. He’d kind of wanted to keep the ones he’d hadn’t eaten in his room as, like, a trophy of her caring enough to bake them, but that plan was out now. 

Thanks to those cookies, come Wednesday, Mike still feels miserable and is pretty damn behind on homework as well. And to top it all off, he sees El twice during passing period being flirted with by Troy Harrington and Nate Bass, who’s probably three inches taller than Mike (who is definitely taller than the average guy in his grade, to be fair) and on the basketball team, and who every damn girl is always swooning over.

“Aw man, that sucks,” Dustin says sympathetically, noticing where Mike is watching. El is wearing a pleated skirt and a fuzzy pink sweater, and her hair is pulled back in the kind of pigtails Holly wears. She’s not wearing the anklet, lacy socks peaking out from her white chucks instead. 

“Does she look like she’s into him?” Mike asks. He feels too gross to pretend he doesn’t care. And pretending seems pointless anyways. Considering he’s consistently gotten distracted in every single class he has thinking about how cute El is, it’s safe to say maybe he has a little crush on her. 

It’s new to Mike. He’s never had a crush on a girl before, which is part of the reason apes like Troy call him and Will queer. Mike still wishes he could go back to not caring. The hopeful somersaults his stomach does every time he sees El are getting pretty annoying. Feeling like he’s been hit by a truck when he sees her smiling that gentle, gorgeous smile that’s supposed to be for him, goddammit, at people like Nate is even worse.

“Of course she is, all the girls are. I mean, how could you not be? He looks like a greek god,” Dustin helpfully points out. Mike shoots him a look that is half-wounded, half annoyed.

“He’s not that good looking,” he protests half-heartedly. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, I guess there might be a couple girls that aren’t into natural golden curls, sea green eyes, and perfectly chiseled bone structure, but the likelihood that El Hopper is one of them isn’t very high.”

“And I look like a frog,” Mike sighs, ignoring Dustin’s knowing smirk and wishing he were at home in his basement instead of watching El’s curls bounce as she walks beside Nate.

“I mean,” Dustin begins, and Mike knows whatever comes out of his mouth next isn’t going to be helpful, “kind of, but maybe some girls are into that? Anyway, no use moping around until after the party. If she brutally rejects you then, be my guest and get all depressed.”

“I might not even go,” Mike says, still feeling deeply sorry for himself. It’s not El’s fault Nate’s better looking than him and it’s definitely not her fault that she’s gorgeous enough for guys like him to flirt with her, but it still feels like shit. “It’s going to be full of guys like Troy and Nate, and El might not even go. And if she does go, she’s going to be surrounded by her friends and the football team all night long.”

“That’s a likely outcome,” Dustin concedes, “But there is a one and a million chance you might get to talk to her. Let’s be honest here, if she even just tells you ‘Hi, Mike’, it will be totally worth it.”

Mike wants to deny that, but he can picture all too easily El coming up to him after Friday’s game, her smile lighting up her face and his name on her lips. Yes, it would be worth it, even if she doesn’t say anything else to him the whole time.

Thursday and Friday pass in a panicked blur. Mike alternates between thinking about El and trying so hard to not to think about El he ends up thinking about her anyway. It doesn’t help that everyone else wants to discuss his painfully obvious crush on her every single fucking lunch period.

“El Hopper just walked in,” Max reports on Thursday. It takes every ounce of willpower Mike possesses to not turn and look at her. “Did you even hear me, Wheeler?” When Mike continues to ignore her, she sticks her finger in his ear hard enough to make Mike feel like his eardrum’s broken. “Earth to fucking Romeo, your lady love just walked in.”

“Why should I care?” Mike snaps, taking a vicious bite of turkey sandwich and rubbing his ear with his other hand. His crush may be obvious, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it out loud to any of his friends. 

“Uh, because you cream your pants every time she looks anywhere near your direction?” 

Mike glares at her. Lucas and Dustin are laughing at him, and Will pinches his mouth in a way that means he’s trying not to smile.

“She looks even cuter than usual today, in case you were wondering,” Max adds, smirking. “She looks like a hot catholic school girl.”

“Oh my god, she totally does,” agrees Dustin, eyes wide. “That’s why they all go nuts over her, even when Camille is right next to her.”

“Why would El having a sense of modesty, which is more than most of her friends can say, make assholes like her more?” Mike asks, not quite sure what annoys him about Dustin’s statement, but knowing that he definitely is pissed off about it. “And El’s way prettier than Camille.”

“Ooh,” Will says under his breath, unable to keep back his smile. 

“Untrue. Camille’s the hottest. It’s an objective fact,” Dustin says, going a little starry-eyed. Max just rolls her eyes at him, interjecting in a voice that is way too fucking loud for Mike’s comfort. 

“Well, Wheeler, much as I shouldn’t have to educate you on this, I consider it my god-given duty as the only one in this group of losers to have gotten any action,” Max begins. 

“I mean, I get action. With you,” Lucas points out. Max lightly punches his shoulder.

“The reason why everyone goes gaga over El Hopper is that she looks all innocent and pure. Combine that with her reputation for being sweet and shy, and you’ve got the perfect specimen for assholes like Troy Harrington to want to corrupt. She’s, like, every guy’s perfect vision of a sacrificial virgin.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Mike half-shouts, blood rushing in his ears at the thought of Troy Fucking Harrington doing anything to corrupt El. Max ignores him.

“You know it’s true, Wheeler. What, like you don’t get all moony over the idea of you and her losing your virginities together on a bed of rose petals with Madonna playing in the background?”

“NO!” Mike really does shout this time, his face burning. He can say truthfully that he doesn’t think of El like that. Well, he doesn’t think of her as an object for Mike to corrupt and possess, at least. He can’t say truthfully that he hasn’t thought about her like that at all. Mike doesn’t have any experience with sex at all outside of Dustin forcing them all to rifle through issues of Playboy, and the fake boobs and overly-done sexy poses in those hadn’t done shit for him, but he does know letting his mind wander to El naked only a metal door away is pretty damn inconvenient when it keeps happening in the middle of class. He keeps flashing back to how she looked on Monday, too, with the sharp edge of her collarbone exposed, her hair swept back so Mike could see the long line of her neck, the soft place it met the baby pink shell of her ear. He’d kind of (as in, definitely, really, really) wanted to touch her, right there in the middle of the cafeteria. It would have been so easy to just lean over and kiss the place where her neck met her shoulder.

And she would have hated him, if he’d done that. To Mike’s credit, he feels fucking awful about having these thoughts at all, especially when every other guy in school treats El like a piece of meat. But he is a teenage boy, and, well, now that he’s started thinking about her that way, it’s hard to stop.

On Friday, El passes him in the hall again, flanked only by Jenny Hayes (who, in spite of what happened with Will, really is a nice girl). This time, she gives him a small smile and wave, and when Mike tries to return the gesture he’s absolutely positive it comes out as a grimace. He spends the rest of the day beating himself up over not at least saying hi to her. 

Saturday is the day of the party, and Mike starts panicking about what to wear at approximately five p.m. in spite of the fact Dustin made it clear they cannot show up earlier than nine thirty (“Technically it starts at nine, but only total dweebs show up to a party right on time”). His mom finds him emptying his closet in search of something cool to wear.

“Michael! What on Earth to do you think you’re doing?”

Shit. Mike hasn’t told her he’s going to be out, and she’s definitely not going to let Mike go to a party. After Mike’s dad left, she slipped back out of her phase of not really caring what her children were up to and slipped back into her overprotective “Michael, you know you can talk to me” mode. 

“Uh, well, I’m sorry mom, but I’m going over for dinner at Dustin’s and we were thinking about catching a movie afterwards. I mean, it’s Saturday, so it’s not like I have school tomorrow.”

His mom still looks suspicious, eyeing the heap of accumulated clothes Mike is sorting through like they are a bomb that is about to go off. 

“And that requires emptying out your whole closet?”

For an excruciating ten seconds, Mike panics, trying to think of an excuse. He remembers a piece of advice Nancy gave him years ago, when he got in trouble for sneaking back into the house after staying late at the Byers’ house shortly after Will’s asshole dad left. Mike had scoffed at her at the time, not wanting to take advice from his prissy older sister, but her words are coming back to him now, and seeming a lot more sensible: “The best lies are half-truths”. 

It will hurt his pride, sure, but that’s better than being locked up at home and not even getting the chance to see El.

“There’s, uh, there’s this girl,” Mike begins, cringing when his mom’s face immediately lights up. He knows mentioning a girl is the best way to distract her—she’s been nagging him for years about not showing interest in them—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be all gun ho about discussing his romantic life with his mother. “And Dustin overheard her talking to her friends about meeting up at the Aladdin and I thought maybe I could bump into her…”

He trails off suggestively, and his mom’s eyes shine with joy.

“Oh, Michael, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy you’re finally showing an interest in girls. For the longest time, your father was worried you were going to end up like your little friend Will…”

Mike forces down the hot flush of anger that immediately rises in him. He can’t lose his temper now and ruin his brilliant excuse, even though hearing anyone talk negatively about Will and the rumors surrounding him makes Mike want to punch them. Even if that person happens to be his own mother.

“Yeah. Well, I’m just going to keep looking for the right thing to wear,” Mike continues, forcing a smile.

“You do that, honey. Do you want any help?”

For a moment, Mike actually considers saying yes. After all, his mom was El’s age, once (and if that isn’t a disturbing thought, Mike doesn’t know what is), and she might actually have insight into what Mike could wear to not look like a total dweeb in front of her. On the other hand, the likelihood of her forcing him into his one suit and tie is way too high for Mike’s liking.

And he doesn’t want to answer any more questions, either. If she makes him give the name of the girl he’s crushing on, she won’t rest until the entire fucking town knows her son has a crush on Jim Hopper’s cute cheerleader adopted daughter. 

In the end, he just wears one of his less wrinkled polo shirts and jeans. When he meets up with the rest of the boys and Max, sweating slightly from the bike ride, he sees that he was right not wear anything crazy. Lucas and Will look exactly the same as always, and Max looks even more dressed down than usual.

“Parties are stupid, and I wanna make a statement,” she explains. Lucas gives her a look.

“You still wanted to go.”

“Shut up, Stalker.”

Dustin is the only one who looks different. He’s wearing a The Clash T-shirt Mike’s pretty certain used to belong to Jonathan, and his hair is doing that crazy, puffy thing Steve Harrington taught him how to do that looks ridiculous with his curls. 

“Alright, men,” he begins when Mike brakes, catching his breath. “As we all know, we are sacrificing our Saturday night to help our good friend Michael get a chance with the girl of his dreams, Eleanor Hopper. Given that Eleanor Hopper is popular and Mike here is a well-known wastoid, this may seem an impossible prospect. Nevertheless, we must all do our best to facilitate any interaction between Mike and El.”

“Hear, hear,” Will says, exchanging an amused look with Mike. 

“Alright, sure. Let’s just get going,” says Lucas, and Mike mouths a thank you to him the moment Dustin remounts his bike. 

The address Camille gave Dustin is for one of the rich-people houses that gives out full-sized candy bars on Halloween. For a moment, all of them can only stop and stare up at the scope of it in awe, taking in the large glass windows and huge, perfectly manicured lawn. Then, James Thomas stumbles out the front door and vomits in a hydrangea bush on said lawn, and the awe turns to apprehension.

“It’s literally only nine-forty,” Max says, checking her watch. “Ugh. You sure we can’t go home?”

“What, you don’t want to get totally wasted?”

“Fuck no.”

There’s no obvious place to put their bikes, and the fact that cars are lined all up and down the street is indication that biking to a party was a pretty dweeby thing to do. They settle from propping them against the side of the house and hoping most of the people inside are too drunk to thinking about stealing them.

“On the contrary,” Will comments, “I think the only time these people might even consider stealing one of our bikes is while drunk.”

Mike thinks this makes a lot of sense, and is about to propose moving them to a safer location, but he’s interrupted when the door swings open and Camille, who is wearing something that doesn’t look like it should constitute a dress and is covered in sequins, sees them.

“Henderson,” she greets Dustin brusquely, looking him up and down while he preens. “Cool, you came. And you brought your loser nerd friends.” She gives them all a lingering look of distaste, eyes narrowing even more when they land on Mike. “Alright, you can come in. Try not to get your loser germs all over the furniture, m’kay?”

“She’s awful,” Lucas says as they shuffle into the muggy house. It’s about as packed as Mike had feared, and he can’t see El, even when he cranes his head. If she’s not here, and he’s shown up to this fest of awful teenaged decision making for nothing…

“She’s gorgeous,” Dustin says dreamily, trailing after her like a lost puppy. “Well, wish me luck, gentleman. I’m going to try and melt the ice princess.”

Mike rolls his eyes, hoping Camille doesn’t reject him too brutally, and starts to nudge his way forward. It’s impossible to look anywhere without getting a glimpse of scantily clad cheerleader, and the thump of bass coming from the state-of-the-art stereo is making Mike’s head spin. He keeps looking, counting blonde head after blonde head. 

“Do you guys see her?” he asks over the din of the party, swallowing his pride. He’d hoped to find El himself, but with this many people…

“No. Not yet…wait!” Will grabs Mike’s arm, and points to a huddle of girls in the living room. “That’s her, right?”

Mike stops in his tracks, feeling like someone’s dropped a bowling ball on his head. El is throwing back her head and laughing at something Jenny Hayes just said, and she looks…well. There aren’t really words for how she looks. She’s wearing a flimsy, sky-blue thing Mike thinks is called a sundress, her hair wild and cloaking her delicate shoulders. She’s also barefoot, and fuck, even her fucking toes are perfect. For a long moment, Mike can only gape like a fish, trying to memorize everything about how she looks right now. Then, a heavily muscled shoulder barrels into him, sending Mike crashing into Bitchy Stacey, who spills her drink on him. When she catches sight of his face, she scowls.

“What the actual fuck, Wheeler? Who the fuck invited you?”

And Mike feels like dying when El glances over at the commotion and sets her golden brown eyes right on him, looking like an idiot and dripping with Stacey’s alcoholic-smelling punch.

Jesus, fuck. Mike suddenly has a very bad feeling about this.

…………………………………………………

“I want to look…” El trails off, considering the various skimpy dresses Camille has lined out on her queen-sized four-poster bed. El loves Camille’s bedroom so much, she sometimes sleeps over just because it’s so pretty, and El always feels like a princess from one of the books Hop used to read her under the shimmering white bed drapes and the white Christmas lights that twinkle along the top of the canopy all year round.

“Cute?” Jenny offers, giving her a critical look. “Pretty? Beautiful? Gorgeous?”

“You look all those things already,” Camille assures her with one of her eye rolls. “What you need to look now is sexy.”

El bites her lip, blushing. Truthfully, sexy is the word she was thinking of, but afraid to say. It’s not a word she’s ever applied to herself before, or even wanted to. Sexy was for girls who wanted boys to look at them. It wasn’t for girls who had their heads shaved up until the age of thirteen because their foster father thought it was unhygienic. It definitely wasn’t for a girl who flinched every time a guy so much as glanced at her because she couldn’t stop remembering the wandering eyes of a foster brother three years her senior. There were certain instincts that never faded.

But now, something’s changed inside El. Before, wearing her modest dresses and sweater sets was what she wanted, happy to let girls like Camille take the spotlight. But since Friday, El’s been having thoughts she’s not used to, and her sweaters and knee-length skirts are feeling less safe and more stifling. She keeps remembering changing the in the bathroom with Mike only a few feet away. Being naked so close to him, a prospect which normally would’ve induced a full-blown panic attack, hadn’t felt scary at all. It had felt dangerous, but in a good way. Exciting. Her whole body had been flushed with the thrill of it as she’d pulled on his sweatshirt and felt the material brush against her bare skin. 

“Do you want me to do you?” he’d said, and when he’d blushed, El hadn’t wanted to run away. A part of her had wanted to make him blush again. 

What is happening to her?

“Is that what you want, Ellie? To look sexy?” Jenny asks her, catching the conflict as it flits across El’s face. 

El hesitates, considering the dresses on the bed. She’s never imagined herself wearing one before, but now…all on its own, her mind conjures up what it might be like to wear something that clings and catches the light, to feels Mike’s eyes on her and see him blush again. Because of her.

But that’s silly. Mike isn’t even going to be at this party, and besides, he hadn’t blushed because he liked her or anything. He’d blushed because he’d accidentally said something the wrong way, and he was afraid she’d get the wrong idea, if anything. And El had gotten the wrong idea, hadn’t she? She’s been daydreaming about him for days, and now she wants him to see her in one of Camille’s filmy little dresses.

If anything, she’s probably annoyed him. He’d probably taken one bite of one of her burnt cookies and cast her out of his mind for good, if he’d even ever thought about her in the first place.

El sighs, folding her arms around herself.

“I know what this is about,” Camille observes, giving her a shrewd look. “This is about Wheeler. You’re thinking about him again.”

El shakes her head emphatically, knowing her stained cheeks are giving her away.

“Uh-uh. I don’t like him, Cami, I swear I don’t.”

She’s saying it because she wants it to be true, but also because she knows Camille doesn’t like Mike. If El does say she has a crush on Mike, Camille might even stop being her friend, and then Jenny would follow Camille. Soon enough, El would have no friends at all. She’d be alone again.

El will do anything to stop that from happening, even lie. 

“You do. It’s, um.” Camille looks a bit lost, looking to Jenny for help. Jenny gives her a warning look, and Camille sighs. “Listen, I think Wheeler’s a stuck up asshole who doesn’t deserve you, sure. He thinks he’s better than everyone else just because he kisses ass to all the teachers. But if you like him, that’s fine, Ellie. I mean, there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Really?” El asks, trying to keep the hope out of her voice. She blinks back the burning in her eyes, mustering up a smile. 

“Whatever,” Camille says, which means “yes”. “I mean, I don’t get why you’d want fucking Wheeler when you could literally date Troy, or even Nate. Nate’s gorgeous.”

“The heart wants what it wants,” says Jenny wisely. Camille’s cheeks color, and she looks away quickly towards her vanity, where all their makeup bags are gathered.

“He’s not like you say,” El says, wanting to explain herself. “He was so nice to me. I think he’s just shy, maybe. Like me.”

“That does make sense. We thought Ellie was stuck up too, when she first joined the team, remember Camille? But she was just afraid we wouldn’t like her.”

“I mean, I guess,” Camille concedes. She gives El a look that’s half desperate, half exasperated. “But Wheeler’s not even cute!” she whines.

El blushes again. Mike’s face flashes through her mind again—the big, dark long-lashed eyes, the large nose, those full, rosy lips. The sharp swell of his cheekbones, and the way his hair had flopped in his eyes when he smiled at her on the football field. And those freckles, scattered across his cheeks like little stars! Mike is more than just cute. He’s pretty, and tall, and perfect, in his own way. To her, at least.

“I think he is,” she says quietly. Camille groans, flopping dramatically onto the heap of dresses on the bed. 

“Ugh. You’re absolutely sure?” 

“How does he make you feel?” Jenny asks her eagerly, wide-set eyes shining. El pauses to think, not knowing how to put that happy, blushing, dangerous feeling into words.

“Like…like I want him to think I’m pretty, but I also want to not just be pretty. I just want him to look at me more. I want him to…I want him to…” 

“Tear your clothes off the second he sees you?” Camille suggests. 

El closes her mouth, Camille’s words and everything they suggest spreading through her body in one, delicious tingle. Her face feels like it’s on fire, and she shouldn’t be having these thoughts at all, but she can’t stop herself. El is supposed to be good. She’s never wanted to have sex before, has gone out of her way to avoid anything to do with it, and all of sudden all it takes is the kind of suggestive comment she’s heard from Camille hundreds of times to turn her into a puddle of a embarrassed goo. 

For the first time, it bothers El that she’s so innocent. It bothers her that even an offhand remark can have such an effect on her. She’s spent so many years wearing modest sweaters and avoiding anything that might make her feel even a little bit grown up, and now all the careful boundaries El has put in place for herself feel like prison walls. All because of Mike Wheeler, who she’s spent maybe fifteen minutes with, in all. 

She’s insane. She’s an idiot. She has a crush on him.

“Oh my god. You’re totally into him! He’s, like, triggered your sexual awaking!” Jenny actually claps her hands together in excitement. Camille sits up, a knowing smirk spreading across her pretty face.

“Took you long enough, sweetheart. Seventeen-years-old and this if the first time you’ve had a dirty thought about a boy? Who knew dorky Wheeler was going to be the one to unlock the animal within.”

“He totally will cream his pants if he knows you like him,” Jenny tells her earnestly. El just stares at her, an awful, overwhelming combination of hope and panic clenching around her stomach like an iron fist. “How could he not? He’s, I mean, no offense, but he’s a total nerdy virgin and you’re one of the prettiest girls in school. How could he not like you?” 

El swallows back the comment she wants to make, about how last year Will Byers was a total nerdy virgin and Jenny was one of the prettiest girls in school, and nevertheless Will Byers hadn’t liked Jenny back for reasons El still didn’t fully understand. It’s this thought that tips the panic to overwhelm the brief surge of hopefulness, and El suddenly feels sick. What if the same thing happens to her? What if Mike doesn’t like her even as a friend? What if she’s already annoyed him?

What if she’s already blown any chance she might have had to get to know him better?

Jenny is still prattling on about how cute they’ll be together, and Camille is even starting to look more enthusiastic, but El needs to get out. She runs from the bedroom and into Camille’s private bathroom, shutting the door and locking it without thinking. Sinks down on to the fluffy white bathmat, wrapping her hands around her trembling knees. 

How could a kind, smart, cute person like Mike ever like a girl like El? She knows she’s kind of messed up, and even if he can deal with that, there’s no way he’ll even want to look at her when he finds out where she’s come from, and what she’s been. 

It’s hopeless. She’s hopeless.

El doesn’t know how long she sits there, trembling and forcing herself not to cry. It could be a minute, it could be an hour. Finally, a soft knock on the door brings her slightly out of her haze of misery, and El turns teary eyes towards the sound.

“Ellie?” Jenny’s voice is soft, hesitant. “Can we come in, please?

She sounds worried. El hates making her friends worry. Silently, she climbs to her feet and shuffles over to unlock the door. Jenny is looking at her with wide, concerned eyes, and Camille is behind her, mouth twitching. El knows that expression well enough to know it means she’s worried, too.

“I’m okay now,” she says quietly, ashamed of herself. She tries so hard to keep moments like this away from school—away from the perfect, shining life she’s crafted straight from a John Hughes movie—but they slip through the cracks sometimes anyways.

The first time it had happened, El had been so afraid that she would lose her friends, that they would see her for the freak she is and never want anything to do with her again. But here she is, and they are still here too.

“We took it too far, didn’t we?” asks Jenny, reaching over to wrap her arms around El. El leans into the hug, nose twitching from Jenny’s overwhelmingly fruity perfume, her tears starting to feel less urgent. “I’m sorry, Ellie. We didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“I’m sorry too,” El says, hoping they know what she means. Camille rolls her eyes in the nicest way.

“It’s cool, you dweeb, we’re used to it. You’re just like Tutu.”

Tutu is Camille’s fat, spoiled Persian cat. El loves him a lot even though he’s not very interested in people, including his owner. She’s begged Hop on more than one occasion for a cat of her own, and been refused every time because of his allergies. 

“Sometimes he randomly freaks out when you pet him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to pet him again. You’re, like, the same. And at least you don’t scratch us.”

El smiles at her, feeling a lot better. Hop may not understand why she likes these girls, but they really are good friends in their own ways. They like her for who she is, even if they don’t show it all the time.

It gives her hope that Mike might like her too, in time. 

“Thanks, Cami. That’s sweet.”

“Don’t get sappy on me,” Camille snaps, rolling her eyes even harder. “Now listen, you adorable dumbass. Much as I still don’t approve of your little fixation, you’re my friend and I do want you to be happy, and like Jenny said, you can’t help who you like. It’s not your fault you have shit taste.”

She stops for a dramatic pause, letting El’s anticipation build. Camille has that look in her eye: the one that explains exactly why she’s Queen Bee at Hawkins High, even over Stacey. She’s not afraid to do whatever necessary to meet her own ends, which isn’t always a good thing, though hopefully it will be in this case.

“I didn’t remind you before, because I was hoping you’d forgotten, but there is a chance Wheeler is gonna be here tonight. Against my better judgment, I told Dustin he could bring his loser friends with him, and he’s probably gonna, since he, like, exists to be a thorn in my side.”

“Oh, so he’s Dustin now instead of just Henderson?” Jenny asks her, her smirk looking out of place on her normally sweet face.

“Byers is probably coming too if Henderson is, so you might want to shut the fuck up.” 

Jenny sits back down, a wounded look flashing across her face at the mention of Will. El would go and sit next to her to comfort her, but she’s a little caught up in the surge of giddy excitement that washed over her the second Camille mentioned Mike’s name. Mike might be coming, tonight, and that means El will get the chance to see him. And that means…

“I’m gonna make you look so hot Wheeler’s puny virginal brain will have an aneurism, just because I’m a nice fucking friend. But you’re gonna owe me, bitch. You got that?”

“Thanks, Camille,” El says happily. If there’s one thing Camille knows how to do, it’s make boys notice her. Maybe El will never have quite her charm—Camille is widely acknowledged as next-level gorgeous, with her bee-stung lips and upswept green eyes—but if Camille can work even a little of her magic, El might have a better chance of Mike noticing her in the crowd.

Her confidence falls again when Camille forces her into a sequined dress that feels more like underwear, steering El in front of her full-length three way mirror to properly scrutinize her body. El squirms away from her gaze, pulling the hem down self-consciously. She knows she wants to look different, but this dress feels more like a costume. All the things that are wrong with her body pop out at her at three different angles: She’s short, she doesn’t have Camille’s long legs, or Jenny’s long, sunshine-blonde hair. The dress clings to the little roll of stomach fat that won’t go away no matter how many sit ups she does, and the sequined straps are already slipping down her narrow shoulders. El knows if she wears it, she’s going to stand in a corner feeling self-conscious all night long.

But she doesn’t know how to bring this up to Camille and risk her rescinding her support. Thankfully, Jenny does it for her.

“She looks ridiculous, Cami. You can’t dress her up the way you do when you’re trying to get a guy to notice you. She’s not you. El wants Mike to like her for who she is, and this isn’t her,” she says, lips delicately pursed.

“You’re a dumb romantic,” Camille huffs back. “This dress is what’s going to work. It makes her tits look amazing. Ellie’s got a great rack. She should show it off. And Wheeler probably doesn’t even know what a boob looks like. He’ll freak.”

“You’re forgetting that Mike is a total nerd,” Jenny explains patiently, moving to unzip the dress. El shimmies out of it gratefully, crossing her arms to cover up her bare stomach. “He’s not gonna be into the slutty look. You’ll have more success if you dress her up as, like, an elf from The Lord of the Rings or something.”

“Like I even have anything that fucking nerdy in my closet, dumbass! Anyway, Ellie’s the one who’s stupid enough to want Wheeler in the first place. She should decide. Do you want to look hot or not?”

El startles at being confronted directly. She had just wanted to wear whatever Camille threw at her and look…well, look like Camille does. But Camille is about a foot taller than her, and could walk around school naked all day without batting an eye. El just can’t pull off the same things she can. 

“It’s a very nice dress,” she says, wanting to be as nice as possible in her rejection. “But I’m not like you, Cami. I’m not sexy, and I’d feel dumb if I wore it.”

“Exactly.” Jenny nods, linking hands with El. “She should dress in something that makes her feel comfortable. Something that’s like what she’d normally wear, just with the heat turned up a few notches.”

Camille huffs again, grabbing the crumpled dress from the floor.

“Fine then, Einstein, what would you put her in.”

Jenny just smiles another smug smile, and guides El into Camille’s walk-in closet, ignoring the clothes still on the bed. 

“What do you like?” she asks.

El bites her lip, overwhelmed by all the options. When Hop first adopted her, she had worn his old clothes. Overalls and flannels, an old football jersey. When she’d made the team, Camille had taken her aside and told her to get some new clothes, for the love of god, because the team had an image to maintain. When Hop had taken her shopping, El had been so dazzled by the amount of options she had she’d resorted to picking things not because of how they looked, but how they made her feel. A sweater that was the color of the seashells she’d found in an old box of beach souvenirs, and soft as a kitten. A yellow blouse that reminded her of whipped butter. A dress the color of the first sunset she saw after escaping the foster home.

El lets the same instincts guide her now, thumbing each item of clothing to determine how it might feel on her skin, thinking of what the individual colors make her think of. She settles on a thin, tea-length cotton sundress that’s the color of the sky at high noon.

“This one,” she says decisively. Jenny whisks it off its hanger immediately.

“Good choice. Very pretty.”

“A sundress?” Camille says dubiously when Jenny shows her. “It’s September.”

“Guys dig sundresses. It’s, like, a scientific fact. Ellie has good instincts.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna go and change.” Camille grabs three dresses from the bed and stalks off towards the bathroom, dirty blonde hair swinging behind her. Jenny rolls her eyes the second the door clicks shut.

“We’ll do better without her as a distraction. Now, try it on.”

El pulls the dress over her head obediently, the soft cotton immediately feeling a thousand times more welcome than scratchy sequins. She does a little twirl that causes the skirt to fan out.

“Good,” Jenny decides, giving her a scrutinizing look, “But I can see your bra straps. Ditch it.”

El hesitates. The dress is made of thin material, and it seems…well, it seems kind of slutty, truthfully. But Jenny is right about the bra straps, so El gives it a try. To her surprise, she doesn’t feel nearly as exposed as she thought she would. It’s actually kind of nice, not having her bra pinching into her skin. 

“Better. Unbutton three buttons,” Jenny orders, and El obeys more readily. The dress is still comfortable, and Jenny seems pleased with how it looks on her. “Right,” she says. “Mirror.”

El’s eyes widen slightly at her reflection. The sundress fits her perfectly, the cornflower blue glowing against the golden tones of her skin. The top is unbuttoned enough to make sure she doesn’t show anything she doesn’t want to, but still enough to tell she isn’t wearing a bra. It’s more daring than what El would have worn if left to her own devices, but isn’t that the point? She wants to step out of her comfort zone. To leave behind Normal El, at least for tonight, and unlock Daring El, who isn’t afraid to have fun.

Besides, that feeling she got in the bathroom stall, Mike just a few feet away…El can imagine feeling it again, in this dress. The sequined one would have just embarrassed her if Mike had seen her in it, but this one is different.

“It’s not too much?” she asks, doing another twirl. 

“It’s perfect. You look like yourself, but, like, the hot version. Now, finishing touches.”

Jenny paints her toenails a darker shade of blue (“It can’t look too matchy-matchy. You don’t want to look like you care too much) and tells El to go barefoot, so she looks free-spirited and bohemian. Free-spirited and bohemian is a lot better than itchy and uncomfortable, so El agrees. She also lets her hair down and lets Jenny run her fingers through it until it’s a wild, borderline frizzy halo, and sits still while Jenny smudges brown eyeshadow around the rims of her eyes and puts on a red lipstick that she then wipes off again.

“Shouldn’t I keep it on?” El asks, confused. She’s still not very experienced with makeup, usually just wearing mascara and lipgloss, but Jenny and Camille are very good at it. 

“Trust me, it’s better this way. You want it to look stained and a little messy, like you just made out with someone. It activates something primal in the male mind. It will make Mike want to kiss you, for sure,” Jenny assures her. El blushes, but doesn’t deny that she kind of does want to kiss Mike. Maybe not tonight, but eventually.

Then, all that’s left to do is wait for Camille and Jenny to finish getting ready. When Camille finally emerges from the bathroom, hair teased and eyes smoky, she nods reluctantly at El.

“Alright, Jenny knows what she’s doing. Tell her I said that and they won’t find your body,” she tells El almost cheerfully. 

“Promise,” El says, meaning it one hundred percent. Camille surprises her by ruffling her hair, messing it up even further.

“Whatever, you dweeb.”

It’s at that exact moment the doorbell rings. 

“That’ll be the kegs. God, you look like you’re going to puke. Try and think happy thoughts. Think about Wheeler naked, if you must.”

With that, she flounces downstairs, leaving El’s face burning for what feels like the hundredth time. Camille’s words have the opposite effect on her. Instead of calming her nerves, El actually feels like she might puke.

He might not even come, she tells herself. She might not see him at all. 

The crushing disappointment that train of thought brings is just as bad as the nausea. El sighs, her stomach churning.

The night is only beginning, and she’s already terrified, the excited, hopeful feeling fading entirely underneath a layer of nausea. El does up one extra button of her sundress with clumsy fingers, leaving two undone. Looking at her shaking hands as if from the end of a long tunnel, she tries to tell herself that everything will be fine. She’ll have fun, and let loose a little, and maybe she’ll see Mike. But no matter how many times she repeats that mantra, she can’t shake the feeling that something will go wrong.

There’s no denying that El has a very bad feeling about this. Crossing her arms protectively around her body again, El closes her eyes, and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings are for: a pretty mild description of a panic attack and very light implications of past abuse. both are in el's section of the chapter, so if that's a problem for you, feel free to just skip. 
> 
> el, honey, you have no idea how hard mike is crushing on you.
> 
> camille's characterization in my head is literally just "cusses a lot, a sort of nice version of heather chandler". i originally was going to make her a flat out villain, but i can never resist trying to make female characters as three dimensional as possible and i also didn't want to pass up the opportunity to invert a trope a la steve. besides, there's plenty of canon characters who can act as the flat out assholes, like stacey and troy. 
> 
> next chapter is the party that must be in every high school au fic. the chapter is already written and just needs editing, so i'm reasonably sure i can post it within the week. 
> 
> as always, any comments, kudos, and bookmarks are so, so appreciated. i cherish them all. i hope everyone who's back at school is off to a good start, and to anyone who's still lucky enough to be on winter break: savor every last second, man. <3


	4. In Which Troy Fucks Shit Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm real sincerely sorry about the wait, friends. i've had an awful week and the words just weren't flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. i probably rewrote this three times in total and i'm still not happy with it, so i'm just gonna throw it out here and hope it's not too much of an atrocity.
> 
> thank you dearly to everyone who commented, bookmarked, left kudos, etc. rereading your comments really helps motivate me when i'm in a shit writing mood like this week. 
> 
> i'm including a couple pretty big trigger warnings in the end notes, so if you think that might be a problem, feel free to check! i want everyone to feel happy and safe while they read this. 
> 
> in spite of my general opinion of its quality, i hope you guys like the chapter <3

The party has been going on for around forty minutes, and El hasn’t seen Mike. Then again, she hasn’t moved from the safety of her corner in Camille’s spacious living room, standing with Jenny as a protective shield. They have a plan in case a boy they don’t want to talk to starts to come up to them: Jenny pretends to say something funny, and El laughs in the most exaggerated way possible until whoever it is gives up on getting her attention, or vise versa.

It’s helped El avoid Troy and James, who have started to walk over twice already before seeing El deeply absorbed in Jenny’s company, finally shrugging and looking for more wiling bait. Unfortunately, it’s impossible to see anything over all the heads, and for all El knows Mike is already here and she doesn’t know it yet.

She gets on her tippy toes and cranes her neck, trying to peer over Nate Bass’s curly golden head. Kimberly Evans, who’s one of the tallest girls on the squad, is dancing all on her own to “Tainted Love” right in El’s line of sight, so it’s pretty much hopeless. El gives up temporarily and just watches Kimberly. If anyone else danced while no one else was, they’d be immediately branded uncool, but Kimberly is pretty much the definition of coolness, and a terrific dancer to boot, so instead she has a small circle of admiring boys watching her. 

“Sometimes, I feel I’ve got to BUM BUM Run away I’ve got to BUM BUM get away I’ve got to—“ Jenny is singing tunelessly right into El’s left ear, and she winces, tugging the front of her dress back up. She’s tried buttoning it up three times already, and Jenny’s stopped her each time. 

“For Wheeler, remember?” she says each time, and El tries to stop fidgeting.

Of course, it might all be for nothing if Mike never even comes. 

It is right as El has this discouraging thought that Stacey, who is easily the least favorite of El’s “friends” (there are the ones that are real, and the ones she’s only friends with because they’re friends with her real friends), shouts loud enough to puncture “Tainted Love” and approximately fifteen separate conversations.

“What the fuck, Wheeler? Who the fuck invited you?”

El’s heart leaps up into her throat. All of a sudden, there’s just the right crack in the sea of people for her to see Mike, who has a horrified expression on his pretty, pretty face and is dripping with the punch Camille had mixed earlier. He’s also looking right at her.

“Go get him, tiger,” Jenny tells her, and shoves El forward. 

Walking over isn’t hard at all, because Mike is still looking at her with wide eyes, in spite of the fact that he’s still dripping with punch and Stacey is still cussing him out, and El is drawn to him like a magnet.

“I don’t know why the fuck Camille would ever invite a fucking queer loser like you, but come Monday, your life is going to be even more of hell than it already is, Wheeler. You’re over, you hear me? Your life is fucking over. You ruined my dress, and you’re going to pay for it, Frogface.”

“Uh.” Mike looks to her, then back to El, who is now standing unnoticed before Stacey. El narrows her eyes at Stacey’s dress, which looks completely unharmed. All the punch had landed on Mike. It’s unfortunate for him, but El knows Stacey, and having a ruined shirt is a much better alternative than the war path she’d go on if her dress really was unsalvageable. 

“It looks fine to me,” El interjects in a louder voice than she ever uses. Stacey blinks, finally noticing her presence. El almost wants to scream just to watch her reaction; people are so used to her being quiet they seem to forget she even knows how to stand up for herself and her friends. And Mike is her friend. 

“What the fuck?” Stacey says again, looking from her to Mike incredulously. 

“I don’t see any punch on your dress,” El says, giving her a fake smile she’s well practiced in. “It looks fine.”

Mike’s relieved grin lights up his entire face, his eyes shining as she looks at her. El smiles back helplessly, tucking her hair behind her ear and averting her eyes quickly. She just feels so good all of a sudden. Even standing near Mike is intoxicating in a wonderfully foreign way. 

“Yeah, and she’d know, considering I spilled all my lunch on her last week.”

Stacey looks between them, her face transitioning quickly from incredulous to disdainful.

“What, so are you and Wheeler making each other friendship bracelets now?” she asks El. 

El surprises herself by nodding immediately. The goofy, huge smile Mike gives her makes her nod even more enthusiastically, her heart feeling like it’s slamming against her ribcage. It’s a really cute smile. 

“Even if the dress did have something spilled on it, it was an accident,” El continues, ignoring Stacey’s furious glare. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Thanks, El,” Mike says, and hearing her nickname again in his voice takes El’s poor heart to brink of explosion. Stacey rolls her eyes, her sneer curdling on her pretty face in a decidedly un-pretty way.

“Oh, yeah, I get it. You’re too good for Troy but Wheeler gets your panties wet, is that it Hopper? Whatever. Suck his dick for all I care. Come Monday, you’re dead, Frogface. Enjoy your last living night with your girlfriend.” 

She stalks off, leaving Mike and El as alone as they can be in a party full of loud teenagers. The silence that stretches between them isn’t uncomfortable exactly, it’s just…charged, somehow. The baby hairs on the back of El’s neck are standing up, her arms suddenly covered in goosebumps. And not the kind she got when Camille made her watch Alien last Halloween, but a good kind. She’s all tingly. El feels like she needs to do something, that there’s some perfect thing she should be saying to him.

“I don’t,” she begins, thinking of Stacey’s parting words, but Mike cuts her off.

“I know. She’s just a bitch. Your friends really like to yell at me,” he says, slightly ruefully. 

“Stacey isn’t very nice,” El agrees, “But Camille can be sweet when she doesn’t think anyone else is looking.”

It seems important, to let him know that not all her friends are bad people. Camille was hard on Mike, sure, but she’s hard on everyone. It’s just the way she is. She can be soft, too, at the right times.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t seen that side of her yet,” says Mike. When El frowns, he continues quickly, “But if you say she can be cool, I believe you.”

He believes her. It’s a simple thing, but those three words swell up somewhere warm in the pit of El’s stomach, like she just drank a full mug of hot chocolate. It’s so nice to have someone listen to what she says for once. Camille and Jenny don’t mean to ignore her, exactly, but they’re very opinionated and love to talk, and El hates having to insert herself. With Mike, it seems so easy.

“I guess it’s my turn to have something spilled on me, huh?” Mike says, looking at his drenched shirt. “I guess I should’ve known karma would come and kick me in the ass. I mean, you were way too nice about it, so obviously the universe would have to come and remind me it was my fault. Not that it was bad you were so nice,” he adds hastily. “But, you know, you really let me off easy. Especially since your uniform was so important that day—“

“Mike,” El cuts him off gently, “it wasn’t a big deal. It’s not hard being nice to you.”

Mike’s mouth goes a little slack, and El’s cheeks burn. 

“Well, yeah, because you’re a nice person,” Mike says with a nervous laugh that somehow makes El blush harder. “I don’t think being nice is ever hard for you.”

El bites her lip, feeling like she’s standing on the edge of the quarry, contemplating whether or not to jump. She’s on the edge of giving something away, and all of her protective instincts are telling her to accept the out Mike’s giving her. But the other, tingly, blushing part of her wants to tell him the truth. That yes, El is nice because she is shy, and because she wants people to like her, but that’s not why she likes being nice to Mike. 

“It’s easier with you,” she says quietly, face on fire. 

Mike’s face is just as pink as El’s feels now, and the long beat they stare into each other’s eyes makes El step forward instinctively, tilting her face up to see him better. She sways towards him, and Mike leans down ever so slightly, the air between them electric and warm. 

“El…” he says, his voice lower than El’s used to and breathy in a way that coils hot in her stomach. 

“Mike,” she replies, her own voice coming out just as husky. He’s so close to her, she can count the freckles scattered like constellations across the bridge of his nose. He’s so close she could kiss him now, if she wanted to. She could get on her tiptoes again and maybe Mike would lean down to meet her.

El considers doing it for about three seconds before she realizes what a crazy idea it is. She doesn’t know Mike that well, and certainly not well enough to go randomly kissing him. She doesn’t know even know if he likes her as a friend yet, let alone well enough to assume he’d want to kiss her too. 

El steps back, the spell broken. She clears her throat, looking at his soaked shirt just so she can take a break from staring, mesmerized, at his perfect face. The shirt is just as distracting, clinging to him just enough to show how lean and tall and gangly he is. El feels like she she’s going to burst into flames. 

“That shirt can’t be comfortable,” she says, proud of how even her voice is. “Do you want to get cleaned up?” 

Without warning, a vision of Mike taking it off in front of her flashes through El’s head, and she briefly wonders if the rest of his body has freckles too. 

“Uh, I mean…I don’t really have a change of clothes with me, but I guess getting the smell of alcohol out of my shirt is a good idea,” Mike says, his eyes black in the low light of Camille’s living room. “My mom will kill me if she thinks I was drinking.”

“The bathroom’s upstairs. You could probably even borrow one of Camille’s dad’s jogging shirts, you know,” El offers. “I know where he keeps them. He and her mom are both away in Paris for the next two weeks, so he won’t miss it.”

“Oh, that’s…that’s really nice of you,” Mike says, “but I think I’m just going to take you up on the washing up part, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” El says, only for some silly reason wanting to say something else, to make him stay downstairs with her a little bit longer. It would be selfish of her—he must be uncomfortable, and the fruity-liquor smell of the punch is awful—and it’s not like Mike won’t be able to come back down, when he’s more cleaned up. 

She just still wants to stay with him anyway. That hot, coiled feeling in her gut is making her want to go upstairs with him, to help him clean up his ruined clothing for the second time. The polo shirt he’s wearing looks a lot thinner than the adorably ugly sweater he’d been wearing their first meeting, and imagining having so little between her hands and his skin induces another blush that covers El from her ears to her toes. 

“Right,” replies Mike, taking what seems like a very slow two-steps away from her. El can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t want him to leave, or if maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to leave her either. 

It’s enough to give El a burst of courage she didn’t know she had.

“You know,” she says, just as Mike looks like he’s about to walk away for good, “It’s, um, a pretty complicated house. Do you want me to show you?”

Is it her imagination, or does Mike look relieved? He’s smiling again, definitely, in that goofy, slightly crooked way that makes El’s heart flutter. 

“That would be great, actually. I’m pretty bad about getting lost. And I wouldn’t want to end up somewhere I’m not supposed to be.”

“No,” El agrees, smiling back like an idiot. She takes his hand without thinking, and the slight jolt that goes through her when his skin meets hers is perfect and terrifying. Her whole palm feels like it’s been electrocuted in the nicest way. She can’t stop smiling as she starts to lead him away, his fingers tightening as they thread through hers, wondering at how all of a sudden the whole night seems completely worth it.

Of course, it doesn’t last.

James Thomas, Troy’s only-slightly-less-mean friend, blocks them the second they reach the stairs. His piggy eyes flit from Mike, to El, and back to Mike again. El takes a step back unconsciously, and Mike steps halfway in front of her, as if shielding her. It’s enough to make El relax slightly, clutching his hand a little more tightly. If Mike notices, he doesn’t make any indication.

“Fancy seeing you here, Frogface. I see you’ve ditched your little faggy boyfriend to be with Hopper here, huh?” 

The second he opens his mouth, El can smell the booze on him. He and Troy had both shown up well on their way to drunk, and were now even farther along then they were upon arrival. Even though she can’t see it, El can almost sense Mike’s eyes roll.

“No one’s with anybody. She’s just showing me to the bathroom.”

James ignores him, taking up even more of the space between them and the stairs. 

“See, that’s going to be a bit of a problem, Frogface. My good friend Troy—your face is pretty familiar with his knuckles—has had his eye on little Hopper here for a while. And I’d be a pretty shitty friend if I just let you two waltz off.”

El stiffens again at the mention of Troy, and maybe Mike can sense her discomfort from her grip, because he moves even further in front of her, blocking her completely.

“Look, if El wants to see Troy, that’s fine,” Mike says, though his voice certainly doesn’t sound like it’s fine. He sounds angry. “But she’s not his property. She’s allowed to go upstairs.”

“That’s cute, Frogface. You were better off with the faggot,” James says. He’s shouting a second later. “Troy, man! Wheeler’s making off with your girl!” 

El gasps, whipping her head back round to the living room crowd. Sure enough, Troy is lumbering towards them, murder writ across his face. Now, it’s El’s turn to step in front of Mike. She may be nervous around Troy, yes, but right now, he looks angry enough to hit someone and El is not going to let that someone be Mike, not when it’s her fault in the first place.

“Well hello there, little Hopper,” Troy says, stopping in front of them and crossing his arms. “You clean up nicely. You’re always cute, but I didn’t know all of that was hiding underneath those sweaters.”

His eyes drift to her chest, and El fights the urge to cross her arms. Then, Mike steps up to block her again, his hands balling into fists.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” he half-shouts, and El wants to stop him, because she knows the look on Troy’s face, and he’s definitely going to hurt Mike if Mike doesn’t step back. And if Mike gets hurt because of her…

“Yeah, sure. You just want those tits for yourself, huh, Frogface? I saw the way she ran up to you at the game Friday,” Troy snarls, taking another menacing step forward. “Listen, I’m going to say this once, very nicely. You’re going to go and walk out of this house, and not talk to Hopper here again, or I’m going to beat your face in. Got it?” 

“No.” Mike’s voice is like ice. El can’t help but shiver a little at the coldness of it, even though she’s still afraid for him. 

“Mike,” she tries, “it’s okay, please. You just go upstairs.”

“What, so you’re okay with him talking to you like that?” Mike snaps, rounding on her. “Like you’re a piece of meat that belongs to him?” 

El takes a step back, surprised. She didn’t mean to make him angry, but Mike is angry and it looks like it’s not just at Troy, but at her. She wants to tell him of course not, of course she hates it. She hates Troy and everything about him. But if she does that, Troy absolutely will beat Mike up, and El will be helpless to stop it.

“Mike,” she tries gently, “Please. I don’t want you to get hurt. Just go upstairs without me. I can take care of myself.”

“You want to listen to her, Frogface. Run along upstairs and stay out of my fucking hair while I get Hopper here a drink, and maybe I’ll let you keep your nose in the same place it is now. Though really, a nice beating might improve it,” Troy sneers.

Mike ignores him, looking down at El. He looks…disappointed, and still angry. El hopes it’s not with her, but she hopes even more for him to stay safe, and if that takes her accepting one drink from Troy, well. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices to help your friends.

El still wants to tell him that she’s only trying to protect him, reassure him that she loathes Troy and that the second she can she’ll find him again. But she can sense deep down that if she says any of those things, Mike won’t leave. And Troy will get even angrier.

“Is that what you want, El?” Mike asks her. He’s begging her with his eyes to say no. El can read it on his face, plain as day. 

But she can’t do that. 

“Yes,” she says quietly. She doesn’t look away quickly enough to miss the wounded look on Mike’s face, nor the awful, triumphant leer on Troy’s. 

“Listen to the girl, Frogface. You toddle up those stairs like a good boy. Hopper and I have some catching up to do.”

Mike looks between El and Troy one last time, his mouth a tight, pinched line. Finally he turns away from her. 

“Fine,” he huffs, and pushes past James to climb the stairs. It takes every bit of willpower El possesses to call for him to come back. 

“Right,” Troy says the second Mike is gone. “What’ll it be, Hopper? Punch? A beer?”

“I’d like orange juice,” El says coolly, staring him right in his brutish face. Troy laughs like she’s said something funny, an abrasive noise El flinches back from.

“No booze, no game. I can go upstairs and keep my appointment with Wheeler right now if that’s what you want, Princess,” he warns. 

El bites her lip. It seems like there’s no way out of drinking something, but she still is going to milk what little control she has over this awful turn of events. And she remembers Camille instructing on numerous occasions, as if El wasn’t the type to not let a drop of alcohol enter her bloodstream if she could help it: “Don’t accept any drinks unless you’ve seen every damn second it’s spent in his hands.”

“Okay,” El says sweetly, sweeping her hair over her shoulders. “But I want to go with you. To see my options.”

She chooses punch, and watches him ladle it into one of the red solo cups. She sips in tentatively when he hands it back to her. 

“Come on, Princess, you’ve gotta drink the whole thing,” Troy says, eyes skirting from El’s puckered mouth the expanse of skin exposed by her dress. 

“You never said anything about that,” El says mildly, peering at him over the rim of her cup.

“Maybe not, but I’ve said plenty of things about beating Wheeler’s face in, and I mean them, so if you like his face the way it is now, I suggest you drink the fuck up.”

He has her on a string, and El is helpless to do anything except drink. He refills the cup the second she’s done, and this time El only hesitates a moment before drinking. The sting of alcohol is mostly masked by the fruitiness of the punch, and it’s not nearly as bad the second time around. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Troy says, sounding pleased. “Time for a third?”

The only answer El can give is yes. She drinks this one in very small sips so that it lasts longer, and though Troy looks annoyed, he doesn’t call her on it. 

The fourth time, El tries to call him on his bluff. Troy just sends her one dark look and immediately heads for the stairs, and even though El’s head is buzzing slightly, her thoughts sluggish as they make their way to the front of her brain, one is very clear: Mike is up there. 

He heads back down when she drinks.

After the fifth and sixth, the buzzing feeling has become floating, and El doesn’t need encouragement to finish the seventh. She glances around the room for a one of her friends, but Jenny is gone (El remembers, vaguely, seeing her laughing tipsily in the middle of half the track team) and she can spot Camille through the screen door, shouting at one of Troy's friends for pissing in the bushes. Trying to make her way outside to her seems impossible; her knees feel like jelly, and getting up from the couch she's flopped on seems silly when she's feels so fuzzy and comfortable. El can’t even quite remember why she started drinking to start with, just that’s it’s something to do with Mike, and that Mike is good, so drinking must be good too. The room is very warm, but not in an unpleasant way, the couch is much softer than she remembered, so soft it feels like she's sinking down into it like quicksand, and there are even warmer fingers toying with the straps of her dress.

It would be nice if they were Mike’s fingers. El wouldn’t mind at all, if it were him. Her skin is burning, so much she’s surprised the fingers don’t retreat. She closes her eyes, thinking hazily of Mike’s face, and for a moment he’s the one touching her shoulder. No, he’s upstairs. And he wouldn’t be digging his fingers into her skin like that, wouldn’t be reaching his other hand up to her breast—

“Get off of me,” she cries immediately, shoving Troy away with all the force she can muster. It’s not very much force, apparently, because his grip on her only tightens, his left hand squeezing her breast painfully, the right pinching hard into the soft skin under her arm. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls, breath muggy and sour in her ear. El doesn’t listen, electric panic at war with the alcohol coursing through her veins. She shoves at him again, writhing away with all her might. 

“Get off of me,” she repeats, now screaming. “Stop touching me! Stop touching me! I don’t—I said get off! Mike! Mike!”

Dimly, under the thrum of blood and panic in her ears, she’s aware that people are reacting to her screams, moving towards her. It only makes El panic more. She dumps what’s left of her cup down Troy’s front, thrashing blindly at him. Another set of hands reach over to pull him off of her, and El loses her focus briefly when her eyes meet Jenny's. Troy shoves Jenny away with an elbow to the stomach, and she careens away, clutching her middle. A new spark of fury fuels El, and her hands start to outright hit him with all her strength instead of shove away.

“What the fuck—fucking stop that you little bitch!”

"Camille! Camie, help--" Jenny's voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a long tunnel, the rest of the worried murmurs fading into a static hum. No one else tries to pull Troy off of her, though, not after he knocked Jenny aside like she was made of porcelain.

El grabs blindly at him, fighting against the hard heat of his hands. Instead of struggling to get away, she moves closer to him, lowers her head to his shoulder, and bites as hard as she can while he’s still unsuspecting.

Troy lets her go immediately with a howl of pain, and El tumbles to the floor, screaming again.

“Mike! Mike!” 

“What the fuck—she fucking bit me! You little cunt—“

Troy lunges for her, and as El throws herself away from him, her knees burning against the friction of the carpet, two things happen: Mike appears from above her and punches Troy square the face, and Camille’s arms wrap around her.

“What the actual fuck, Harrington?” Camille’s voice shouts in her ear as she helps El to her feet. El staggers, wrapping her own arms around Camille for support. “What the fuck did you do to her?” 

Camille looks over her shoulder, first to Jenny, who looks terrified for El but barely able to stand straight herself, the worry in her eyes clouded by the haze of alcohol. Beside her is Dustin, his mouth open in an ‘o’ of total shock, and Camille promptly passes El to him, her eyes warning him what will happen if he doesn't comply. El immediately wraps her arms around Dustin like an octopus and collapses against him, causing Dustin to stagger against her weight. “Take care of her for a minute, Henderson,” Camille orders. "I can do it, Camie, 'm not tha'drunk," Jenny slurs, reaching towards El. Camille smacks her away perhaps a little too harshly, and Jenny retracts her hands as if stung. "You can barely stand up yourself, Jen. Let him take care of it." Before Jenny can protest again, Camille is stomping towards Troy, her green eyes murderous slits.

Troy ignores her, all his rage turning to Mike, clutching his bleeding nose.

“You’re fucking dead Wheeler. You and your bitch of a girlfriend are fucking dead!”

He moves to get to his feet, already swinging a fist at Mike, who stumbles backwards instinctively. Before he can make contact, he doubles over again, collapsing in total agony when Camille’s stilettoed foot comes into contact with his crotch.

“I don’t know what the fuck you thought you were doing to my best friend, but it is not going to fucking happen again, you got that?” Troy just looks up at her in mingled fury and humiliation, clutching his nose in one hand and his groin in the other. “Now, you’re going to get the fuck out of my house before I call the police.”

Troy makes no motion to movie. Camille raises her foot again threateningly.

“In case your stupid ass forgot, the chief is her father, and I’m sure he’d want to know what you’ve been doing to his daughter. Get out now, Harrington, or I’ll stomp on your fucking face.” 

The speed which Troy stumbles to his feet is nothing short of miraculous for a guy who’s just been bit, punched in the face, and kicked in the balls. He grabs James by the collar and staggers his way to the door, looking murderously over his shoulder. Camille screams at him until the door slams shut behind him.

“And if you ever fucking touch her again I will fucking castrate you, do you fucking understand? I will break one of this goddamn beer bottles right now and use the glass to cut your fucking dick off. I fucking mean it—“

“Holy shit, dude,” Max Mayfield says to her boyfriend, looking at Camille with something halfway between horror and admiration. 

“Now,” Camille turns briskly back to her shocked, silent guests as if nothing unusual had happened. “Wheeler!” she barks. 

Mike is already standing next to Dustin, his hands hovering by El’s back as he looks for the best way to extricate her from his grip. Dustin is giving him a look that can be universally read as “sorry, dude, it’s not like I don’t want her to let go.” Mike turns his head quickly when Camille says his name, eyes wide with worry.

“As I’m sure this whole mess is somehow your fucking fault, you’re going to take Ellie upstairs and get her sobered up. And if you lay a single hand on her in any other way, Troy’s are not going to be the only balls I cut off tonight, got it?”

The look Mike gives her is pure indignation at the idea he could ever do something like that to El, but he still finds a way to transfer her into his arms, El mumbling in protest at the loss of Dustin. The mumbles stop the second she latches onto Mike instead, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Mike’s face is probably the reddest thing in the entire house, including the awful, burgundy couch cushions.

“I, uh, don’t really know how to do that, but if I did—“ Mike begins. Camille rolls her eyes, but before she can say anything about his total incompetence as a teenage boy, Max interrupts.

“God, of course you don’t. Fortunately for you, I do know what to do. I’ll take care of her,” she assures Camille, who nods brusquely, lips pursed.

“Hey, I could take care of her just fine—“ Mike is interrupted yet again.

“You’re Maxine Mayfield, right?” Camille asks. It’s Max’s turn to nod. 

“I prefer Max. Nice to meet you. Come on, Wheeler, let’s make sure your lady love can puke her guts out in relative comfort.”

The second they start up the stairs, Camille is shouting orders again.

“Alright, you shits are going to clean up every single inch of mess you made, and then you’re all going to get the hell out of my house. Party’s over, assholes.” 

"Me too?" Jenny asks, tugging Camille's wrist. Camille sighs.

"No, not you, honey. You head on upstairs and go to sleep."

"I wanna help Ellie!" 

"You can help her by sleeping off however much you had tonight so you can be there for her tomorrow." Camille's voice is sharper, and leaves no room for argument. "She's in good hands, Jen. I'll take care of her."

"Promise?" Jenny asks, chin trembling, her eyes swimming with a combination of booze and tears.

"Promise," Camille assures her. "Go on, get up there and just, like, use my parents' bed, okay? They won't know the difference." The second Jenny has reluctantly (and very slowly) started up the stairs, Camille is shouting again. "What the fuck did I say? The party's over, get the fuck out!"

“Thank god,” Will mutters to Lucas, who’s looking to where his girlfriend just disappeared up the stairs. “We should probably go and help Mike.”

Lucas, who has (after Mike) always been the best of them at maintaining the integrity of the party rules, nods his curt let’s-get-down-to-business nod. 

“I’m gonna go and help them get her up the stairs.”

Will half-expects tearing Dustin away from Camille to be more effort than it’s worth, but to his surprise, Dustin appears beside him a moment later.

“We’re staying, right? Mike’s gonna start freaking out the second El’s settled, and someone’s going to have to keep him from setting himself on fire out of guilt.”

“It’s not his fault,” Will points out. Dustin rolls his eyes, huffing. 

“Obviously. Doesn’t change his tendency for self-flagellation over allowing harm to come to people he cares about.”

Will can only stare for a moment, surprised at this sudden burst of clarity into Mike’s psyche. Before he can reply, Camille strides over to them, her eyes still wild with anger.

“You guys are staying?” she asks, for once without an insult attached.

“If it’s alright with you,” says Will.

“We have a rule. When a party member requires our assistance, it is our duty to provide that assistance. And El is, like, an honorary party member since Mike’s totally in love with her,” Dustin further explains. 

The corner of Camille’s mouth quirks up, and to both their surprise, what starts as an amused smirk turns into a genuinely friendly smile.

“I mean, that was phrased in the dorkiest way possible, but that’s actually pretty sweet of you guys. El needs more people that care about her.” She pauses, eyes finding Dustin’s. “Alright Henderson, Byers. If you want to help, follow me into the kitchen. She needs to eat something.”

And Dustin and Will follow her, Dustin with starstruck glee at being allowed to remain, and Will with a mixture of amusement at Dustin’s lovesickness and general concern over the situation, leaving Mike upstairs with El, Lucas, and Max.

And just as they had predicted, Mike is already in the throes of self-hatred. 

:::::::::::::::::::::

Mike had stayed in the bathroom sulking long after he’d washed off what he could of Stacey’s punch. El was down there, with Troy Fucking Harrington, who had tormented Mike for years, and she’d wanted him to leave. Sure, it was to keep him from getting beat up, but Mike honestly (and if this isn’t an indication that his crush on her is growing exponentially, he doesn’t know what is) would’ve taken a fist to the face if it meant staying with El.

But she’d wanted him to leave. He’d asked her, flat out, if that was what she’d wanted, and she’d said yes, her eyes serious and her mouth a firm line. Mike would’ve taken a full-on Troy Harrington beating to avoid how he’d felt when she said that one, simple word. Logically, of course he’d known El was only doing it to keep him safe. He’d also known that’d he’d respect her wishes, even if it felt like a knife in the gut to walk up those stairs and away from her and Troy’s hungry, wandering eyes. 

But the not-so-small, paranoid part of Mike’s brain couldn’t stop whispering: What if she just wants you to leave because you’re a loser? Because you annoyed her? Maybe she has a crush on Troy and she wants to get you out of the way. There’s no way you’re dumb enough to believe she might actually want to spend time with you.

It was that voice that had kept Mike upstairs, trying not to listen to the sounds of the party and feeling sorry for himself. He shouldn’t have come. It was stupid to be hopeful, even for a second, that girl like El Hopper could possibly like a nerd like him. 

Mike had snapped out of it when he heard her scream his name. At first, he’d thought he was dreaming, that his stupid brain was cruelly conjuring up a fantasy of El’s perfect honey-sweet voice to torment him with. Then, she’d screamed it again, and again, and oh, wow, okay, so this was actually reality. She was screaming his name. Which meant, probably, that she was in trouble.

The rest had passed in a blur of pure instinct and a white-hot fury Mike had never felt the likes of before. He barely registered Troy calling El a word Mike would never think of applying to a girl, ever. He barely registered his fist connecting with Troy’s face. All Mike had seen was El, sprawled on the plush living room carpet, her eyes wild with fear and his name on her lips. 

And now her arms are wrapped around him, tugging firmly around his waist, all of her body weight leaning against him. She’s light, and a part of Mike is dizzy with all that contact, with the heat of her body pressed tightly into him. El’s on her tiptoes, swaying so that her face nuzzles his neck, and any secret giddiness Mike feels at the fact that she’s basically hugging him disappears when he smells the alcohol on her breath. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, realizing in a horrible burst of clarity that she’s this drunk because he’d left her. Fucking Troy had probably done this, because El hadn’t been drunk before, and Mike can’t see her getting into this state on her own. Her eyes had been so clear and when she’d smiled at him she’d sparkled. She’d been holding his hand. There had been a moment when Mike had imagined she might kiss him. And now she’s almost blackout drunk.

When Mike gets his hands on Troy, he’s going to fucking kill him. Never mind that Troy is a couple inches taller and has about sixty pounds of muscle on Mike. Mike is going to destroy him. 

“El? El, can you hear me?” he asks gently. She just continues to totter, clutching him a little more tightly. In spite of the alcohol that’s thick on her breath, the tickle of her curls against his neck as she presses her face into his shirt is doing funny things to Mike’s stomach. 

“Come on, let’s get her upstairs,” Max says, trying to help take El. She only clings to Mike more tightly. Mike does his best to guide her in the direction of the staircase, which is a struggle since El is still clinging to him for dear life. The weight of her suddenly lessens, and Mike blinks in surprise when he sees Lucas carefully unwrapping her arms from around Mike’s neck. 

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Lucas says when Mike opens his mouth to protest that he really doesn’t mind. El’s eyes flutter open again, focusing on Lucas. She squints, then shakes her head.

“Not Mike.”

Mike has never been more appreciative of Lucas for holding back on the teasing. Unfortunately, his girlfriend lacks his self-control.

“Don’t worry, El, you can cuddle Wheeler all you want when we get you upstairs,” Max says way too cheerfully, raising her eyebrows at Mike.

El looks to Mike for confirmation, her eyes wide and blurry and worried. Mike nods, ignoring the smirk lifting the corner of Lucas’ mouth. Thankfully, whatever teasing remark is about to come out of his mouth is cut off by the arrival of Jenny Hayes, who is only slightly less drunk than El. 

"Ellie?" she warbles, her big, wide-set eyes overbright. "Ellie, wha'happened? Why were you n' tha'asshole…" 

"Jenny, right?" Max interrupts brightly. "Need some help?" Mike shoots her a grateful look, having no desire whatsoever to help Jenny Hayes stumble up the stairs when El needs him. Jenny nods, taking the hand Max offers and moving around Lucas and El.

"Uh-huh. M'supposed to go to Cammie's parents' rooms."

"You know where that is?"

"Uh-huh. Done this before."

"I bet you have," Max mutters, then turns back to Mike and Lucas. "I'm gonna get her settled, then I'll help you guys, okay?" 

“Mike," El mumbles again, and Mike nods his agreement to Max, who leads Jenny away. 

With Lucas helping, El is safely delivered up the stairs, Mike opening doors in the upstairs hallway until he finds what has to be Camille’s bedroom, given the heap of sparkly dresses on the bed. It's a relief when Max reappears behind them, her face slightly pursed in annoyance at having to babysit Jenny Hayes, even for such a brief period.

“I think that’s the bathroom,” she says, jerking her head in the direction of an adjacent door. “I’m gonna run a cold shower.”

“Why would that help?” Mike asks, not liking the idea of shoving an unsuspecting El under the onslaught of freezing water without warning. 

“It won’t sober her up,” Max explains, “But it will help snap her back into her senses. My stepdad used to waterboard Billy when he came home drunk off his ass, and it always got him closer to his normal dickwad self. This is gentler than that, but it will do the same thing.”

Mike frowns, glancing at El, whose eyes are closed again. She’s now attached to Lucas in the same way she was to him, and he has to fight down the tiniest upsurge of jealousy. Now’s not the time to be petty and paranoid. 

When the shower is running, Max takes over as El Support to get her in the bathroom, supporting her weight even better than Mike and Lucas had. Mike would be embarrassed that a girl almost half a foot shorter than him can support the weight of the even tinier El better than he can, but he’s too relieved that El is getting the help she needs to really care.

A moment after the door creaks shut, it nudges open again, and Max’s head peeps out, her red hair a swinging curtain around her face.

“I had to shove her in with her clothes. I tried to ask her to take off the dress, but she’s pretty out of it. Find her something dry to put on, will you?”

Mike and Lucas exchange awkward glances when Max disappears back into the bathroom, then glance warily towards the open door of the walk-in closet, within which more fucking dresses can be seen. To Mike, it’s as intimidating an entryway as the mouth of Shelob’s lair. 

“You have an older sister, you look,” Lucas says, plopping stubbornly on the heap of dresses on the bed. 

“You have a younger sister, and Nancy’s been gone for ages. You should look,” Mike retorts. Lucas just rolls his eyes in response.

“She’s your crush man, not mine. You’ve got a better idea of her taste than me.”

It’s a fair point. Mike spends enough time watching El to have an idea of what she feels most comfortable in. And surprisingly, it doesn’t take much time to find something she might like. Camille has an impressive collection of the kinds of big, soft sweaters El loves, and Mike even scrounges up a pair of sweatpants he’s never one seen Camille wear to school. He bundles up the clothes, praying he’s chosen correctly, and goes to knock on the bathroom door. 

“Hey, uh. El? Can I come in?” 

“You can,” Max’s voice calls. Mike opens the door a little nervously, desperately hoping that El is, in fact, covered, and he’s not going to walk in on something he shouldn’t see. Thankfully, she is, bundled up in a fluffy white robe and sitting on the edge of the sink while Max wipes off streaks of makeup on her cheeks. When she sees Mike, her face lights up, and Mike’s heart skips a beat. It helps that she does indeed look a little more aware of what’s going on around her, and Mike breathes a sigh of relief.

“Mike!” El cries, reaching her arms out towards him the way Holly does when she wants him to pick her up. Mike smiles back helplessly, waving the bundle of clothes in greeting.

“Hey, El. I got you some dry stuff to wear,” he says, handing them directly to her instead of to Max, who’s looking at them both with amusement. El hugs them to her chest, then brings them up to her face so she can press her cheek to the soft sweater, her face an odd mixture of longing and contentment. It’s as strange as it is adorable. 

“Soft,” she whispers, looking up at him again, her eyes shining. “Mike. It was so cold.”

There’s something wounded and vulnerable showing ragged in her face, a rawness Mike’s never seen while she’s sober. She looks younger, and haunted in a way that tugs at Mike’s heart even as his brow furrows in worry. He turns accusing eyes to Max.

“What did you do to her?”

“I held her down and tortured her with Camille’s eyelash curler,” Max deadpans, holding up something that does kind of look like a medieval torture device. “Untwist your panties, Wheeler, I just got her into the shower. Given that she’s speaking full sentences again, I’d say it worked. I don’t know why she got all weird and mopey.”

Mike knows it’s not her fault, but he also knows that he hates seeing El upset in any way. Now’s not the time to ask questions about why, though, not when El is once again looking around with unfocused dreaminess. Now’s the time to do everything in his power to make her feel better. 

El sets the clothes beside her on the edge of the tub, her hands moving for the ties of her robe, and Mike and Max both shout in protest, Max taking both her hands before she can untie it. 

“No! Mike’s still here, honey,” Max says, her voice soft and protective in a way that makes Mike slightly, irrationally jealous that he could never call El honey with such conviction, and also sympathetic because he gets it, wanting to protect her. If even Max can’t help softening around her, Mike can be sure it’s not just him who reacts strongly to El’s goodness. People as kind as her deserve to be protected. “Don’t you want privacy?”

El glances from Max to Mike with wide, startled eyes, and Mike smiles encouragingly. He knows his face is burning, even though there wasn’t anything sexual in the gesture at all, and that protective clench burns a little warmer in his chest. 

“I’m going to leave. I’m just gonna be back in the room with Lucas, okay?” he asks, looking to her for confirmation. El nods slowly, her hands now toying absently with the hem of the robe, and she doesn’t protest when Mike leaves, letting the door click shut behind him.

The brief moments before she emerges again feel like an eternity, and the fact that Lucas is giving Mike one of his knowing looks doesn’t help. Before El is done, Will, Dustin and Camille come in. Camille is carrying two glasses of water and standing very close to Dustin, who is holding a box of Nilla Wafers and, inexplicably, a jar of pickles. Camille’s eyes narrow on Mike with a sharp, reproachful edge and guilt crashes over him again in an awful roil of nausea. 

It’s his fault, and they both know it. He’d left her because he was jealous, and hurt because she said she wanted him to leave, not because he was afraid of getting beat up. And if leaving her wasn’t bad enough, moping upstairs and leaving El alone (or as alone as she could be in a sea of drunken teenagers) with Troy because of his own stupid, irrational paranoia was. He was awful, and if he hadn’t deserved even the thought of her before, well. Mike now wants to throw himself off and rid the world of his shittiness, and even if El came up to him on Monday and declared her love for him, he’d tell her she deserves someone better. Someone who won’t accidentally hurt her because of his own bullshit insecurities. 

“Mike,” Will says softly. “However this happened, it’s not your fault, and no real harm was done. El is going to be fine. Right?” 

He turns pointedly to Camille, who sets the glasses of water down on her vanity with unnecessary force. Dustin answers for her.

“Totally. Troy being an asshole is beyond our control. Punching him in the face is the sickest thing you’ve ever done.”

“It was pretty awesome,” Lucas agrees. “Didn’t know you had such coolness in you.”

“Like any of you dweebs have any idea of what’s cool,” Camille says, but her face has softened again. 

The bathroom door opens, and El emerges, her face scrubbed clean and her body swallowed by the big, fuzzy sweater. She’s clutching Max’s hand, and her eyes find Mike’s immediately.

“Mike!”

“Hi, El,” Mike greets with equal softness. He tugs Lucas off the bed immediately, and Camille reaches over him to shove the pile of dresses to the floor. 

“Come lay down, Ellie, you’ll feel better if you rest.”

El obeys, stepping forwards unsteadily like a newborn deer taking its first steps. Mike places a steadying hand on the small of her back without thinking about it, and mourns the loss when El collapses on the bed a second later. She looks up at him blearily, her face open in a way that makes Mike feel like he’s known her for a long time. His guilt is as heavy as a bowling ball in the pit of his stomach.

“Mike. Tired,” she whispers. Mike gets down on his knees so his face is closer to her level.

“She has to drink some water and eat something if she can first,” Max pipes up, handing one of the water glasses to Mike. He passes it to El, who shifts herself slightly more upright, curling both of her hands around the glass. 

“You’ll feel better if you have some water,” Mike explains, smiling at her when she takes the first sip. “And you want to wash out the taste of that shitty punch.”

El makes a face, her nose wrinkling up at the memory.

“Bad,” she agrees, like Mike has pointed out something very wise. It makes his smile grow, especially since she does look like she’s doing better.

“I put my own sweat and blood in that punch, you ungrateful little shit,” Camille says fondly. El wrinkles her nose.

“That’s gross,” she says solemnly, and the burst of laughter that follows reminds Mike that whoa, there are five other people in the room that are witnessing him being a sappy smiley idiot. The realization hits El more slowly, and her eyes dart over his friends, a hint of panic tightening her face. Mike turns, intending to tell them all to give her some space, but to his surprise, Will does it for him.

“Let’s give her some space, guys,” he says, herding Lucas and Max out without resistance, Max calling a “feel better, El”, over her shoulder that makes the tension in El’s face slacken again, her eyes drifting back to Mike. Dustin lingers beside Camille, who matches Mike’s stare with even more intensity when he tries to will her with his eyes to leave him alone with El, just for a moment. He wants to apologize for leaving her, and he wants to do it without an audience. It won’t make up for what happened, but it will be a start. 

“It’s my room, Wheeler,” Camille begins, taking a step closer to him. Mike opens his mouth to beg, if he has to, but again he’s beaten to the punch, this time by Dustin.

“Uh, Camille?” She turns her eyes to him, and Dustin flushes obviously under her gaze. “Are you hungry? I can make a mean sandwich.”

Camille hesitates for a moment, her hand twitching towards Dustin like she wants to let him lead her away. Mike holds his breath, praying.

“Mike will take care of her,” Dustin assures her with one of his signature flashy, confident smiles. “I mean, look at him. He’s practically in love with her. If El wanted him to wipe her ass for her, he’d totally do it and thank her afterwards.”

For once, Mike manages to keep his mouth shut, pursing his lips against the automatic defense he wants to fire back. Thankfully, Dustin jokingly insulting him seems to finally put Camille at ease, and she follows Dustin downstairs with only a few ominous parting words:

“I should go check on Jenny anyway. And we’re definitely talking about what happened later, Wheeler, got it?” 

Mike nods without reluctance. Whatever else has happened tonight, he doesn’t doubt in the slightest that Camille really does care about El, and would have been devastated if anything bad had happened to her. Mike is perfectly willing to let her murder him for being a selfish, careless idiot. He just wants to apologize to El first.

The door click shuts, and Mike finally turns back to El. She’s curled towards him, her right hand inching towards his. Mike cups it within his without thinking, his thumb sweeping reassuringly along the crease of her palm. Her skin is very warm.

“El, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” His voice comes out wrecked, and Mike has to swallow heavily, because she looks so trusting as she listens to him, and he doesn’t deserve it. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head slightly, “Not your fault.”

The fact that she doesn’t blame him doesn’t make Mike feel better at all. It only makes it worse. She’s so good, and she almost got hurt because of him, and Mike can’t stand it.

“It is. I shouldn’t have left you. I was being selfish, and jealous, and stupid.”

“I told you to go.” El’s voice is a little surer now, her words less slurred. “You would’ve gotten hurt. Because of me.”

“I would let that asshole break my nose fifty times if it meant him not hurting you,” Mike says with total sincerity, his hands tightening over hers. El looks worried again, like the very idea of him being hurt because of her is scarier than the very real danger she’d been in, and it tears up something in Mike’s chest because he feels the same way thinking about what Troy might have done if he’d had the chance. 

“I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” El says, her voice even softer. “It’s not your job to protect me, Mike.”

Mike swallows again. She’s right; he hasn’t known her long enough to really owe her anything, and if someone else were in his position, he wouldn’t think they were a bad person for doing what he did. It’s just that he still wants to protect her. No, more than that: It’s like he needs to protect her, and not out of some stupid jealous feud with Troy. That wild fear in her eyes had terrified him, and he’d felt like he could kill anything and everything that tried to lay a finger on her. In that moment, Troy hadn’t stood a fucking chance.

He can’t tell El any of this, of course, even though she might not remember it in the morning.

“I know,” he says, looking away. “I still don’t want anything bad to happen to you. It’s not just you. I wouldn’t wish that asshole on anyone.”

This is a partial lie. Yeah, Mike would do his best to help anyone in El’s position, but the fact that it is her makes all the difference in the world. 

“I know,” El says, her voice slurring slightly again. Mike can tell she’s coming close to drifting off—her blinks are coming sluggishly, her breathing slower. Mike has never seen her look vulnerable like this, and he feels bad for thinking she’s beautiful because of it, but she is. She’s always beautiful, but this is a different type of prettiness. It’s like she’s not Cheerleader El Hopper, who might at any moment realize that Mike is a total nerd and not worth talking to. She’s just El, a girl who is, he realizes, kind of strange. A girl he wants to understand. 

“You’re good, Mike,” El says. Mike has to lean close to hear her, her voice is so soft. “You are so good.”

Mike has to blink a few times to clear his own head. For some strange, stupid reason, he thinks he might cry.

“I’m nothing compared to you,” he whispers just as quietly, unsure if El can even hear him. She rolls to her other side so she’s facing the opposite direction, and Mike has to swallow down his disappointment that he can’t see her face anymore.

“You seem so…” she starts, her words dragging and even more impenetrable without the reference of her face. “Like I know you,” is how El finishes. “Like I know that you are good.”

Mike doesn’t even know what to say to that. He feels it too, with her, but he’s sober and she’s not, and he won’t have an excuse if he says something too big for their brief moments together, something she won’t want to remember in the morning. He’s not superstitious, and he’s not a big romantic, but if he was one of the types to believe in all that reincarnation, past lives kind of stuff, well. El would be his first choice for a person he has to have known, at some point. She just makes sense to him, even in her strangeness. 

“Mike…”

“El?” 

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know you don’t,” Mike says sincerely, “and I’m so sorry. You should sleep now, and you’ll feel better tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say when tomorrow, not knowing how long her hangover is going to last. Thankfully, El doesn’t ask for specifics, instead blindly reaching one arm behind her and brushing his hand. Mike squeezes it gently with a naturalness that kind of scares him. It’s a gesture that feels way too easy, like he’s spent years assuring El in this exact way that he’s here and that he cares. He’s almost relieved when she wraps her arm back around herself so that final-puzzle-piece feeling can go away. 

“Promise?” she asks, like her heart rides on his answer.

“Promise,” answers Mike, and means it. It seems to be all El needs to hear to fall asleep. Mike waits until her breathing is soft and settled before he stands up, looking down at her once more before leaving. Her hair is splayed over the pillow, and Mike touches it before he can think on the creepiness of that gesture, running his fingers along the softness of one curl before snatching his hand away as if burned. There’s no blanket in sight except for the one El’s laying on top of, but there is a second robe hanging in the bathroom, this one flannel. Mike covers her with it as best as he can so she won’t wake up cold. 

He leaves the Nilla Wafers and the water glass on Camille’s nightstand, and lets his eyes linger on El for one last moment before he switches off the light. From this angle she could be any girl, and yet she is not any girl. Mike thinks he could see the back of her head from a mile away and know immediately it was El. 

Dustin, Will and Camille are waiting for him in her kitchen, all three of them eating overflowing subs, Camille’s with a side of pickles. Dustin gives Mike a thumbs up when he sees him.

“You want me to make you a sandwich?” he asks. Mike shakes his head in reply, not hungry in the slightest. He plops himself down next to Will, resisting the urge to run back up the stairs and make sure El keeps sleeping soundly for as long as she needs. Dustin seems to sense this line of thought, as his concerned expression turns slightly amused. “Is your girlfriend all tucked in?” 

Camille’s eyeroll matches Mike’s. 

“She’s not his girlfriend.”

“Better Mike than Troy,” Will says mildly. The point is taken, but grave, uncomfortable silence falls over the table in its wake.

“Well? What happened?” Camille finally asks. It’s a moment Mike knows he deserves, but explaining is still difficult. 

To her credit, Camille lets him speak, though she winces immediately every time she opens her mouth to interrupt consistently enough to make Mike think Dustin is kicking her under the table. Mike appreciates it.

“And when I heard her calling for me, I came down as fast as I could and, you know, punched Troy. It’s my fault. I was being stupid.”

There’s a bmoment of uncomfortable silence in which Mike and Camille stare at each other, her eyebrows pinched and mouth pursed. Finally, she huffs a sigh, her eyes softening.

“Maybe internally you were being a bit of a jealous dick, sure, but she did tell you to leave, and I guess it’s a good thing you’re willing to listen to what El wants. That’s more than fucking Troy can say.”

Mike frowns. He hadn’t thought of it that way, being too caught up in guilt over his jealous, pissed off sulking upstairs while El needed him, but she did tell him to leave. Mike doesn’t think he should win a gold medal for actually listening to what she wanted, but it does make him feel a bit better, like he did do the right thing. He listened to El. He didn’t just ignore what she was telling him so he could prove some point about how much he liked her. 

“I guess,” he says, nonchalantly, but secretly feeling like a weight’s come off his chest.

“She’s totally right, man,” Dustin chimes in. “It would have been shitty to totally ignore El, and you would have gotten beat up. You did the right thing, and when she did need you, you helped her.”

“Yeah. I might think you’re a nerd with a superiority complex, but this isn’t your fault, Wheeler,” Camille admits grudgingly.

Mike’s relief is overwhelming. If Camille, who definitely dislikes him and is not going to sugarcoat his assholery to spare his feelings, thinks he’s okay, he can start to trust that he is. 

“But we still need to talk,” she adds, threatening once again, and Mike swallows heavily. 

“It’s been a rough night. Can it wait?” Will asks her, and Mike’s surge of gratefulness is overwhelming. Will always understands what he needs, sometimes even before Mike does. 

“It can’t,” Camille says. “But I’ll make it fast. Wheeler, it is painfully obvious to everyone that you have a huge fucking crush on El. I think she can do better than you—Nate Bass likes her, for fuck’s sake—but I was wrong about Troy, so I’m willing to give you a shot.”

“I don’t have a crush—“ Mike starts, flat out lying, but he’s interrupted.

“Mike, it’s okay that you do,” says Will kindly.

“You’re super fucking sappy around her,” Dustin agrees. 

“Is Wheeler trying to pretend he doesn’t want to have El’s babies?” Max calls from the other room, where she was probably engaging in a Post-Traumatic-Party makeout session with Lucas. 

“He is,” Camille replies, “And if you fuckers are getting any bodily fluids on my couches, I will fucking kill you. Now, Wheeler. You have a crush on El. It’s, like, fine to admit it, I guess. Half the guys in school have a crush on her, because she’s a ray of fucking sunshine. I’m not gonna tell you if she likes you back or not, because that would be making your life way too easy. I am going to tell you that if you put pressure on her in any way to be with you, try to force her into doing anything she doesn’t want to do, or break her heart, I will destroy you. You got me?” 

“I’d never hurt El intentionally,” Mike says honestly. Camille rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, I know you think that now. But I’m serious, Wheeler. If your little crush isn’t requited, but El wants you to be her friend, you are going to be the best fucking friend she’s ever had. If she wants you to leave her alone, you will. Basically, you’re going to let her set all the rules and come to you, and if she doesn’t, you have to be cool with that.” 

“I am,” Mike says, meaning it one hundred percent. “Look, I’m not deluding myself into thinking we’re going to date or anything.” He can feel that he’s blushing, admitting that he would like to date El to not only his friends but to the most popular girl in school, but there’s no turning back now. “She’s nice, and beautiful, and popular. She’s out of my league. I’ve never once thought I have a chance with her. Whatever El wants, I’ll try to give. I want to help her.”

Camille stares at him with narrowed eyes for a long, intense moment that makes the hairs on the back of Mike’s neck prickle uncomfortably. Finally, having finished her scrutiny, she rolls her eyes again. 

“Okay, whatever. You’re good. Just know I’ll kill you if you hurt her.”

“Mike’s not going to hurt her,” Will says. “He’s never hurt anyone who didn’t fully have it coming. I think you can agree Troy completely deserved that punch in the face.”

“Yeah,” Camille sighs, giving Will a slight smile, “he did. And I guess it’s cool I didn’t have to bruise my knuckles to teach him a lesson. Your hand feeling okay, Wheeler?” 

Mike glances down, having almost forgotten that, whoa, he did in fact punch Troy Harrington in the face not that long ago. A frission of fear shivers down his spine. There is no fucking way Troy is going to let him get away with this without any retaliation. There is now a ninety-nine percent chance Mike is going to get the shit beaten out of him at some point in the near future. It had been worth it to get the fucker off El, but that doesn’t mean Mike relishes the thought of Troy beating his face in. 

“Let’s get you some ice,” Camille says grudgingly. “Can you grab an ice pack out of the fridge, Dustin?” 

Dustin lights up at the fact that she’s used his first name, shooting out of his seat like a rocket to get to the fridge. For the first time since he left El, Mike honestly smiles. At least someone’s happy with the outcome of the night. And even though his knuckles are aching like crazy and rapidly turning purple, it gives Mike hope things might turn out okay. El’s lucky to have her own friends looking out for her so well.

When Camille kicks them out the second Mike is done icing his knuckles, her parting words being “Now, you loser dweebs get the fuck off my lawn before I call El’s dad on you. I have two very drunk teenagers to babysit and I am not going to host your late night sandwich party too”, Mike waves goodbye to her sincerely. He can admit he’s misjudged her.

And if he looks towards the upper story of Camille’s, big, beautiful house to whisper goodnight to El (who is far and away the most beautiful thing inside it as far as he’s concerned), even though she can’t hear him, well, no one calls Mike out on it. 

And Mike believes, the second the words leave his mouth, that maybe, just maybe, El can tell that he cares, even when he’s not there to show her. For the rest of the weekend, at least, Mike resolves to be a little more hopeful. He can be pessimistic on Monday, when Troy no doubt will kick his ass.

“Stop trying to telepathically confess your love to El and move your ass, Mike! It’s cold as shit and we want to get home,” Dustin calls. 

“I don’t love her,” Mike protests back as he mounts his bike. 

“Sure you don’t,” all four of them reply in unison. Mike rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest again, because it’s true. Maybe he’s just a little bit in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: a character is coerced into drinking alcohol against their will, is briefly groped without their consent, and panics in response. the c-word is used once. someone gets punched in the face. copious uses of "fuck", as always. 
> 
> troy and stacey are the real villains of this fic, yo. 
> 
> i'm pretty unsatisfied with how this turned out, but i've gotten to the point where i'm sick of looking at it, so i'm just tossing it out to you guys and hoping for the best. in spite of being kind of a downer atm (honestly, with the sinus infection i have combined with the amount of homework i've been assigned, it's a wonder i've managed to write at all), i love love love you guys so much and smile giddily to myself at every little bit of feedback you give. sooo thank you so much for your continued support <3


	5. In Which The Princess Bride is Quoted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been like 3 weeks (and believe me i'd much rather be writing this than doing homework but you know how it goes) but i wanna say again thank you everyone for being so damn nice to me, and for being understanding about my weird, angsty sinus-infectiony state last chapter. i'm better now, except for the overload of homework ugh but all the comments really cheered me up! 
> 
> i can't promise future updates are gonna be any quicker but on the bright side this chapter is almost 10k words sooo there's that? i couldn't figure out how to split it so it's a bit of a monstrosity tbh but it's an especially mileven-centric one and you can never have too much mileven 
> 
> as always (i thought this fic would be pure fluff oops) there are some light to moderate triggers in the end notes. nothing nearly as bad as last chapter but as always i want you all to read safely! love you guys, and lemme know what you think in the comments so i can respond with waaay too much enthusiasm <3

El wakes, once, in the night to the alien weight of a body clamoring over her. When a curtain of blonde hair tickles her nose, she thinks, hazily Jenny and turns into the arms that are wrapping around her midsection. She’s hot, too hot, her own skin clinging uncomfortably like a foreign membrane El wants to peel herself out of. It’s a gross feeling. Sleep is blurring her awareness of her surroundings, and alcohol makes what little sense she has even further fractured.

The shadows of Camille’s room look like they could contain people, waiting to get her. El’s heart speeds a little at the thought, Troy’s face flashing through her mind, then Papa’s. She’s scared and she doesn’t quite remember why.

“Ellie,” Jenny mumbles, her face crooked into the angle of El’s neck. “’M don’t feel good. Can I sleep here?”

She sounds like El feels, and the question makes sense, which is nice because nothing seems to right now. 

“Mm-hm,” El hums, and falls immediately back into fitful sleep, her breathing slowing in time to match Jenny’s.

She is cold, still shivering from the freezing shower, where it had happened. Papa’s eyes are colder. El is angry, but she is even more scared. She cannot cry like she wants to. She cannot scream like she wants to. She cannot curl up into a ball and pretend the world is not real like she wants to, that there are not hands reaching out to her in cruelty and that she might be responsible for what is happening to the owner of those hands.

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” she says, calmly, the way Papa wants her to. “I didn’t want you to hurt him.”

“Didn’t you? Then why would you tell me what he did, Eleanor? He tried to touch you, and you told me. What did you expect me to do?” Papa asks, his voice clinical, like she is a butterfly pinned to a wall, her wings a spread of messy, messy emotions that he is only examining to better understand how to stop them. She hates his voice.

“I don’t know.” El’s shaking her head. She doesn’t know what she’d expected. She’d been scared, and she’d run. Screaming for Papa was a reflex she did not know how to stop.

“Oh, I think you do, Eleanor. You are not a kind child. Do you know how I know this?”

El knows the answer. “Because kind children have parents, and I don’t.”

“Kind children have parents that want them,” Papa says with terrible gentleness. “But yours did not.”

El bites her lip. She’s heard Papa and his friends (colleagues, he calls them, but they are more than that) discussing her mother sometimes. Her mother was a patient of Papa’s, before. They call her names, and Papa hums his assent. Crack-whore. Junkie. They do not say that she didn’t want El, underneath the drugs.

“I can’t hear you, Eleanor.”

“She didn’t want me,” El says dutifully. Her eyes are burning, but she can’t tell if it’s from anger or because she is about to cry.

“But who does want you?”

Silence. A beat. 

“Eleanor?”

“You want me, Papa.”

“That’s right. Because I take care of you. I took care of you today, Eleanor. You asked Papa to help you, and he did.”

I didn’t want you to hurt him, El thinks. No matter what he tried to do, I was only scared, and I didn’t want him hurt. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe this is why Papa is doing this.

“Papa helped me,” she repeats, monotone.

“And what do you have to say to Papa?”

“Thank you, Papa,” says El. His face could be made of marble for how little it is moved by her. “I love you,” she tacks on, before he can order her to.

“Good girl.”

El wakes with a jolt, the room exploding into daylight. Her skin is damp and prickling with sweat, her thoughts fused together in a knot of pounding, awful pain. El knows pain, but this is right up there. Her stomach roils, sloshing threateningly, and she flops down on the bed again. Jenny is still asleep next to her, her body a too-hot presence El is suddenly resenting. The sweater she’s wearing is oppressively warm, but even that is a secondary concern to the headache. It honestly feels like she’s dying, like her brain is slamming unprotected into her skull.

“Ugh,” she groans. Beneath the thrum of her migraine, there is another feeling: a tight, clenching fist of panic that El does not have a source for. The mystery of it only makes it scarier. El forces her eyes to flutter open again, staring up at the soft white canopy of Camille’s bed. Something happened. Something bad. There’s a reason that El feels like this, and whatever it is, her memory is trying to reject it. El almost wants to let it. The little glimpses of last night she’s getting are too amorphous to piece into anything concrete: a burning, bitter taste under a heavy mask of artificial fruit flavor. Hands on her body, digging in like claws. Fear. That feeling from her dream El is always running away from, but worse.

It’s like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands, and El wants to let it go. She’s gotten good at forcing unpleasant things to the side. With the bad things that have happened to her, El doesn’t think she could be okay at all if she didn’t and right now the headache is the immediate concern. But something is different now, and in spite of herself, she keeps combing through the glimpses, trying to glean a bit of sense.

Mike’s face comes to her. Smiling bashfully, crookedly, and El’s heart rate speeds up a little even as badly as she’s feeling. Then she sees him angry. Angry and hurt. Because of her? 

She needs answers, and there’s a smell of cooking batter (enticing in spite of El never, ever wanting to eat again with how her stomach feels) that promises them if she manages to get down the stairs. Forcing herself to sit up is brutal. El’s whole body feels like it was hit by a car, and her stomach gives a threatening lurch the second she’s upright that brings bile stinging up into the back of her throat.

“Ugh,” she moans again, pinching the bridge of her nose while she waits for Camille’s room to stop spinning. Camille’s room. How did she end up in here? She assumes Camille dragged her up and into the bed, but there is a suspicion tickling El that something else happened. She wouldn’t get drunk. She absolutely wouldn’t. El never lets go of any control if she can help it, and she’d never put herself in such a vulnerable position.

Mike’s face flashes before her eyes again, this time sweet with concern and glowing from a light that El identifies as Camille’s bedside lamp. The rest comes back in fragments, each one slotting itself into place painfully as broken glass being pulled from flesh, but it comes back.

When it’s all there, El sits for one moment in white-faced shock, her hands trembling. The urge to be sick is at war with her urge to scream, to shove her hands over her ears and try to block it all out. It’s not even Troy and what he did that’s paralyzing her with breathless, awful panic. It’s Mike. Mike, who is kind and good and understands El in a way she herself doesn’t always. Mike, who showed up at the party and was happy to see her. Mike, who saw her at her absolute worst. 

The scream comes out strangled, sounding like a dying animal. El throws herself out of the bed, her legs moving numbly beneath her. Her headache is a distant, dissonant note to what is a symphony of embarrassment. El doesn’t even have the energy to be sick. She doesn’t have room for anything underneath that awful, inescapable realization that Mike knows. He knows she’s not normal. He saw her when she was like that—that one-word answer, no sense of privacy, damaged, awful, stupid girl El has done everything in her power to overcome. He might as well have been the one to find her wandering in the woods mute with a shaved head. 

She just tries so hard to repress that part of her life. The words, the people, the things she did in her fear. Last night she did something very bad, something her old therapist Doctor Owens had given her a word for: Regression. She had regressed. And Mike, the person whose opinion she irrationally cares about the most right now, saw it all. 

El’s brain short-circuits into a loop. Mike knows. He knows and he hates her. He knows he knows he knows—

She’s hurtling down the stairs, her head screaming as hard as her mouth wants to. El wants to do something—to throw up, to throw herself off something, to have one of the syringes Papa used to give her when she was like this, to make her syrupy and pliant. For now, she settles for running, barreling into the kitchen and almost running straight into Camille, who’s wearing her dad’s hot pink Kiss The Cook apron and flipping pancakes.

“Hey, you’re up! Hey, hey,” Camille says in a different voice, the second she sees El’s face. Her hands clasp over El’s shoulders, keeping her in place, and her face tightens with resignation. She’s been expecting this, El realizes dully. “Nope, you’re not going anywhere, ” she says with faux-cheerfulness. “You’re gonna get some help from your beautiful best friends and then if you still want to go running outside all hari-kari you can be my guest, okay?”

Camille’s typical bluntness is like a bucket of cold ice water over El’s head. Trying to fight Camille is about as futile as trying to convince a hungry wild animal not to maul you, and one of the things El has always appreciated is that Camille is still herself with El no matter how feral and messed up she’s acting. Most people walk on eggshells around her when she’s like this, even Hopper. Camille doesn’t hold by that.

Still, it’s not nearly enough to overcome the burning adrenaline coursing through El’s veins. 

“He knows,” she tells Camille, her whole body shaking. “He knows about me Camille, he knows and he’s going to hate me.”

She tried to take off the robe in front of him. She tried to—El collapses right there on the kitchen floor, the pressure of Camille’s hands leaving her shoulders. She’s beyond crying, can only stare at the polished cabinet doors in blank shock, the smell of pancakes still tickling her nose. Then Camille’s face is blocking her line of sight.

“Ellie, honey,” she says, with just the right degree of softness, “If you think for one second your nerdy boyfriend could ever hate you, you really are a dumbass.”

It’s still not enough. El shakes her head mutely, reaching her owns hand up to block herself away from the bright reality of Camille’s kitchen. Camille’s hands wrap around her wrists, stopping her.

“None of that,” she says briskly. Then, she’s shouting. “Jennifer Grace Hayes, get your worthless lazy-bones ass down here this fucking instant before I fetch you! Your friendship duties call, bitch.”

The noise explodes against El’s ears and she moans, her head ringing. Her brain really does feel like it’s slamming into her skull, over and over and over and her stomach is also turning over.

El’s hand breaks free of Camille to clamp over her mouth, bile rising in her throat. Quick as a whip, Camille grabs a metal bowl on the counter and hands it to her. 

“Don’t yak on my kitchen floor or you’re cleaning it up, sweetheart,” she says, and El obeys. She feels better when she’s gotten rid of whatever lingering alcohol had been sloshing around in her stomach. It’s almost worth the taste of bile still in her mouth.

“Okay, now I’m gonna get you some aspirin. Stay there.”

Like El has it in her to move. She swallows the aspirin Camille hands her dutifully, and drinks the rest of the water in three large gulps.

“What’d I miss?” 

Jenny’s voice is still groggy and slightly stirred, and El can’t muster the energy to turn and look at her.

“Oh, barf,” Jenny concludes, seeing the bowl on the floor. “I love you Ellie, but I’m glad I missed that.”

“Help me get her to the table,” Camille says. El opens her mouth to protest, but Camille shuts her up with a look El really doesn’t have it in her to argue with. 

Together, they get El seated at the table, and force her to drink two more glasses of water. The cold helps the headache and the nausea, and when she’s done, El feels just a fraction better. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to leave.

“You can leave after you eat, and after we fill you in,” Camille says, reading her mind. “I called the Chief. I told him you had some insomnia and had a hard time falling asleep, and asked if it was okay if we let you sleep in. He knows I’m feeding you, and he’s going to pick you up in an hour and a half. And he still doesn’t know about the party. You can tell him if you want to, Ellie. I won’t be mad.”

El’s eyes lower to the table. She feels terrible about it, but she just can’t worry about Hop right now, not when Mike is sharp on her mind and panic is still a steady hum through her veins.

“He knows,” she repeats, dully. The same cycle of memory keeps circuiting through her mind—all her stunted one word answers, trying to take the robe off, clinging to him like a baby on the stairs, insisting he stay with her when she was in bed. “He knows.”

“He doesn’t know anything except what happened last night,” Camille says. “That’s up to you to tell him, Ellie. I talked with him afterwards, and I can tell you that he totally doesn’t hate you. Have I ever been wrong?”

Yes, El thinks. You were wrong about Troy. You were wrong and he hurt me. Again, Camille reads her mind.

“I’m sorry about Troy, Ellie. I should listen to you more. I can’t force you to like what I like, and in any case I hate that fucker now. If you like Mike, that’s okay.”

“And he totally likes you,” Jenny rushes to assure her. 

“He’s going to think—“ It takes El a moment to figure out how to continue. Camille and Jenny don’t know all of it; all they know is that El’s life wasn’t good before Hop adopted her, and that sometimes she shuts down because of it. And even they’d never seen the worst of it, those first few months when El had eaten exclusively with her hands to get as much food in her mouth as possible because she was so malnourished. When she’d only been capable of speaking in one-word sentences. When “privacy” wasn’t a word in her vocabulary, and she’d been quietly shocked at how wonderful the kiss of rain felt against her bare scalp because she’d never been outside before. 

“You don’t have to tell him everything,” Jenny says, placing her hand over El’s. “We don’t know everything, Ellie, and we’re still your friends. Mike will totally care about you regardless. You don’t owe him an explanation.”

“I mean, Jenny was passed out upstairs, but I actually spoke to Wheeler after it all went down. He wasn’t angry or anything, he was just worried about you. And he, like, obviously has a crush on you. It’s so obvious it’s gross. All of his friends know, and he blushes ten shades of red whenever anyone says your name.”

For the first time, El smiles. Camille doesn’t sugarcoat and Mike did blush when he saw her, last night. Before everything fell apart. If he was the same afterwards, maybe she didn’t ruin everything. Maybe he’ll still like her.

She’s going to have to face him, though. To talk to him again. El is used to being afraid, but this is a different kind of fear. 

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this,” she says softly, staring at her hands. 

“We’ll help you,” Jenny assures her. “We always do.”

And for the moment, El sits quietly and believes them. 

………………………………

It’s not the first weekend Mike’s spent consumed with thinking about El, but it’s the first one he’s spent worried about what’s happening her rather than panicking about what she thinks of him. His mom is thankfully in bed when he comes in the night of the party, and Mike is up until nearly six in the morning wondering how El is. Now that the immediate issue of taking care of her is gone, he’s also really fucking angry about Troy. More than angry. He’s never been more furious in his life. What he’d been trying to do was flat-out assault, and Mike wishes he knew what to do about it. But Troy’s on the football team, and Mike knows perfectly well from years of complaining to school faculty about his and his friends treatment of them (especially Will) that the school won’t do shit to punish a member of any sports team. It’s total bullshit, but it’s true.

“How did things go with your girl, honey?” his mom asks him first thing the next morning, and Mike has to swallow down a complicated medley of emotion.

“She’s not my girl, mom, and they didn’t go. Not really,” Mike replies emotionlessly, taking an aggressive bite of an Eggo before she can interrogate him.

The problem of whether or not he should go up to El (and what he should say if he does talk to her) is unexpectedly solved for him in homeroom when Jenny Hayes passes him a note. Mike’s heart catches in his throat when he sees his name written in tidy, looping letters on the front, trying not to get his hopes up as he unfolds it.

Mike, it reads, meet me at the bleachers during lunch? I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay. 

And it’s signed with El’s name. Mike exhales, accidentally crushing the note in his fist as his fingers clench out of nerves. So she wants to talk to him. She didn’t outright say “we need to talk”, but that’s what she means. The dumb, lovesick part of his brain wants to convince him that this is a good thing. That she doesn’t hate him for abandoning her to Troy now that she’s sober, that she hasn’t figured out his crush on her and is so disgusted she can’t even bear the sight of him.

The much larger, pessimistic side of him thinks it means she just wants to tell him in person that she doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Mike is so caught up in thinking about the pros and cons of the piece of paper he has clenched in his hand that Max, who sits next to him, has to shout-whisper his name to get his attention.  
“Huh?” Mike flinches and turns, seeing her pinched, frustrated expression. 

“What is that?” she mouths, gesturing at the note.

Mike clutches it closer to him instinctively, a surge of the suspicious annoyance he felt towards Max when she first befriended Dustin and Lucas washing over him. It passes just as quickly as it arrived, and Mike reminds himself forcefully that Max is his friend. She’s never once betrayed him, or anyone in the Party, and she’d been the first one to volunteer to help him with El last night. She hadn’t even teased him that much about it. She does care, in her own way.

Plus, Mike really needs a second opinion. He thinks he’ll drown with nerves before lunch even comes otherwise. He passes Max the note when their teacher’s back is turned, and watches her read it quickly, her brow furrowing. Then, she’s scribbling on another sheet of paper, her hand working furiously. She writes for longer than he expects, like she’s composing a whole fucking letter.

Mike’s trepidation increases tenfold. 

He reads the note she passes back to him quickly, hears it as her voice in his head:

“Listen, Wheeler, I’m just gonna tell my suspicions to you straight. Remember when you guys tried to talk to me about my stepdad, after Dustin saw him backhand Billy after that basketball game his senior year? I lashed out at you because you guys kept trying to make me talk about it, and then you all wouldn’t stop giving me advice when I didn’t. You have to do the opposite of that now.

“The vibe I get from El is that something shitty happened to her before Hop adopted her. I don’t know why I get it, and I could be wrong, but maybe I have a shitty parenting sixth sense or whatever. What happened to her Saturday night would be hard for anyone to talk about, and I think El had reasons to react even more strongly, so you have to tread really carefully. She’s probably embarrassed. You saw her when she was really vulnerable, and that’s gotta be hard for her. You need to listen more than talk, not pressure her into going into something she’s not comfortable discussing with you, and let her know that you still care about her, no matter what happened.

“I know what you’re going to say, blah blah ‘I don’t have a crush on her’ blah blah ‘girls have cooties’ whatever, you wanna lie to yourself that’s fine. I mean let her know you still care about her as a friend, and whatever she needs from you is fine. Just trust me on this one, Wheeler. I’ve never lead you wrong before.”

Mike blinks. When he glances at Max, she’s staring resolutely forward. He glances back down at the surprisingly long note, zooms in on where she talked about her Stepdad and Billy. Max never talks about that, not unless she really, really has to. And her other idea, that something shitty had happened to El…

Well, there’s no proof, but that extreme protectiveness Mike had felt over her Saturday hadn’t come out of nowhere. He remembers that desperate, clinging fear in her eyes too well, how she’d wanted him to stay close. When she’d looked at him and told him that it was cold, so cold. Mike instinctively asking Max what she’d done to her.

It’s a lot to think about. Too much, until Mike has more information. He folds Max’s note carefully and puts it in his backpack. El’s he keeps on him. He wants that proof that there is going to be more information to stay as close to him as possible.

Mike keeps the note curled in his fist throughout all of his pre-lunch classes, until it’s crumpled and damp with nervous sweat. El’s handwriting is probably getting all smudged, but Mike can’t stop himself from holding on to it like a lifeline. He’s trying to convince himself it’s proof that she doesn’t hate him. It’s not an easy stretch, but the crinkle of paper in his clenched fist reminds him that it’s possible, him and El. As friends, of course. He’s definitely not going to get his hopes up about anything more.

The second the lunch bell rings, Mike shoots out of his chair like a rocket, barreling past anyone who tries to get in his way in the hall and out the door. His stomach feels like it’s stuffed and weighted with lead, and he can’t imagine trying to eat even if he was hungry. He sprints to the bleachers, not wanting to keep El waiting for one minute. Hoping, praying. She doesn’t hate him. She can’t hate him. Jenny would’ve said something. Her face would have betrayed a glimmer if that were true. She doesn’t hate him. She can’t hate him.

The only people on the bleachers when Mike makes it there, clutching a stitch in his side and panting, are the punk stoners who always hang out there, smoking disdainfully where no teacher cares enough to tell them off. The stark emptiness of the rest of the seats hits Mike like a truck. She’s not coming. Maybe she never planned to. Maybe she decided it wasn’t worth it, working things out between them.

The stoners are looking at Mike curiously, and humiliation briefly threatens to motor his legs right back into the cafeteria and the safety of the Party, but a bigger part of Mike doesn’t give a fuck. Let them stare. He’s going to sit on the fucking bleachers and wait, because maybe El is just running late. Mike can’t accept that she’s changed her mind about wanting to talk to him. El’s not a coward. She’ll be there. She’ll be there and they’ll work it out.

He sits, jittery with nerves, and ignores the whispers of the stoners, his legs jiggling as he keeps his eyes pealed on the school doors. Almost everyone is in the cafeteria, or sitting at the outside tables. The football field is a wasteland, and despair creeps up on Mike like a bad smell. It’s been seven minutes, and there’s no sign of El. Mike doesn’t have the mental strength to stand up again, to walk back into the cafeteria and admit defeat to himself. He closes his eyes and rests his head on the sharp edge of metal that is the row of seats above him, listening to his pounding heart.

El doesn’t want anything to do with him. Mike stays there for what seems like an eternity until he’s almost half asleep.

“Hey.”

Mike’s eyes shoot open in shock, his heart beating even faster, and he bangs his head hard when he tries to sit up too fast.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pain briefly firing over his nerves. Mike rubs the back of his head, and gasps a little bit when he finally comes out of the shock. El’s sitting next to him, looking almost as nervous as he feels. Her hands are twitching in the skirt of her dress, and she’s worrying her lower lip, not looking at him. Mike hadn’t even heard her coming, but then that makes sense. He’d been in his own little miserable world again, just like at Camille’s party, and ignored her without meaning to. 

“Are you okay?” El asks, finally looking at him. There’s a little furrow between her brows, and she’s pale under the watery high-noon light. She’s terrified, Mike realizes. Of him? 

The idea that she might be scared of him, scared to talk to him, overwhelms any nerves Mike had. El is worried, and he wants to make her feel better. It’s the most natural feeling in the world, and stronger even than his stupid, anxious nerd complex. Mike takes a deep breath. He can’t be selfish, or stupid, or oblivious again. This is his chance to make things right with El, to reassure her that he cares about her, that she didn’t do anything wrong. Max’s words flow through him in a mantra: She’s probably embarrassed. You need to listen more than talk, and let her know that you still care about her, no matter what happened. Whatever she needs. 

“It’s cool,” he says, trying for nonchalance. “Honestly, it probably knocked some sense into me. Which I definitely need.”

“You have plenty of sense,” El says, indignant on his behalf. The nerves flicker back over her a moment later. Her knee is vibrating up and down, her whole body shaking slightly. The silence that stretches over them is awful. Mike knows that he needs to listen to her, to let her take the reigns and lead him through it. But El seems to be frozen, and it doesn’t look like she’s going to speak anytime soon. She’s paralyzed, face tight, staring blankly ahead at the trees opposite the football field. Mike’s heart breaks a little for her.

He can’t imagine how he’d feel, if it had happened to him. To feel helpless like that, and have so many people witness it. Admittedly, Mike is used to being embarrassed, but being embarrassed and afraid is a whole new can of worms. 

Taking a chance, he scoots closer to her. Her knees are bare underneath the hem of her skirt, and Mike’s eyes fix on a small scar on the right one, a tiny little mark shaded in faded lilac. 

“Hey,” he says, feeling like a wastoid. If he were a guy in a movie, he’d have the right words to say to make El feel better. If he were Han Solo and El was Leia, he would probably pick a fight with her to distract her, and banter until she’d forgotten what was making her sad. But Mike’s not Han Solo, and he probably would sound like an idiot if he tried to be. Lucas is totally right. He’s a Luke. He’s not a flirty, button-pushing scoundrel at all.

“You know,” Mike starts, not knowing what he’s going to say and hoping desperately that whatever it is, it will do something to make El feel better, “when we were in seventh grade, Troy spilled orange juice on my seat in our art class and told everyone I’d pissed myself, and everyone believed him and gave me shit about it for fucking months. So Max, who I didn’t really like yet, found a way to lock him in the janitor’s closet. She forged this note from Stacey to meet her in there to make out or something and locked him in.”

El’s turned her face towards him, cupping her chin in her palm. She still looks tense, but she’s listening, so Mike keeps going. 

“She’d taken out all the buckets and anything else he could, y’know, substitute, and the janitor found him the next morning fenced in by, like, puddles of his own pee. I think he had to clean it up himself because that janitor did not fuck around, thank God. Everyone heard about it, and he was so fucking angry. And he never found out who did it.”

The corner of El’s mouth quirks up, and any hesitance Mike had been harboring about telling her what is, truthfully, kind of a gross story fades. 

“Is that what made you like Max?” El asks. Mike can’t help his own smile, remembering what a relief it had been when he’d swallowed his pride and fully accepted her into the Party. He’d only been holding out at that point out of stubbornness, but Max’s total badassery and annihilation of Troy sealed Mike’s eternal admiration for her.

“Yeah,” he admits. “She can kind of be difficult, but she’s a total badass.”

“I like her,” El agrees. “She was nice to me. Last night.”

So they’ve arrived at the real subject of this conversation, and awkwardness descends over them again. It’s Mike’s turn to bite his lip, because he can feel El close herself off again from him, and he wants to stop her. He also doesn’t want to push her. It’s clear that there’s more going on, he thinks, than just what happened with Troy. Maybe it’s more what had happened after.

“It wasn’t your fault, El. I know you know that,” Mike says, hesitantly, “but I wanted to tell you myself. He’s a fucking terrible person who does awful things and I…I’m just really glad you’re okay.” 

It comes out of his mouth too raw, too earnest. Mike doesn’t know what it is about El that turns every sentence that escapes him into a confession. He’s always on a precipice with her, and he never has any choice but to, like, dive forward into the ocean of his feelings or whatever. He’s turning into Nancy at age thirteen, seriously. 

“He just sucks,” Mike says emphatically, to take the edge off of what’s feeling more and more like a confession of love or something. I’m glad you’re okay, I can’t stop thinking about you, you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen…they’re all starting to blend together for Mike. He has an awful vision of opening his mouth to say something really normal, like ‘pass the peas’ at dinner and having ‘I have the hugest crush on El Hopper’ come out instead, and shudders. 

“He’s a big old shitty, smelly asshole,” Mike continues, because he’s incapable of shutting himself up.

The corner of El’s mouth definitely twitches this time, her eyes maybe twinkling slightly. Maybe. Mike could be imagining things and being a mushy, wishful dweeb. It’s not out of the realm of possibility.

“They are usually shitty and smelly,” she agrees, sage and completely deadpan.

Incredulous laughter erupts out of Mike before he can help it. He’s never heard El cuss before, and for some reason it’s the most delightful thing he’s ever heard. It’s like he found an adorable bunny in the woods or something, and when he tried to pick it up the bunny pulled a gun on him and shouted “hands up motherfucker” instead of just wrinkling its nose cutely. Mike can’t stop himself, but El’s laughing too. It’s a snorting, giggling kind of thing that only makes Mike’s laugh turn totally helpless because it’s so fucking cute.

When the laughter subsides, finally, the oppressive weight of Things That Must Be Discussed has lessened, and the next words seem to come to El more easily.

“Mike. How I was later, when I was…you know. I’m not always like that. I’m not.”

Mike knows the second she’s said it that this is what was really bothering El. Max was right, as she usually is. She’s embarrassed, and she’s vulnerable, and she probably is feeling a little like she’s naked and Mike’s sitting next to her in full Medieval armor.

Even the brief invocation of “naked” and El together is something Mike has to push out of his head as fast as possible. He wants to say the right thing, but saying the wrong thing is better than saying nothing at all, so Mike takes a chance.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you were, El. I wouldn’t mind if you were like that all the time. You were still the same person, just communicating a little differently. It’s not like you were replaced by an alien or something.”

“I was stupid.” El is whispering, her voice tremulous in a way that threatens tears. Mike doesn’t want her to cry. Not because he doesn’t want to deal with her sadness. He does, he wants to help her feel better. He just wishes she didn’t feel bad in the first place. “I sounded so stupid. I sounded like…like some stupid, messed up little kid. You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”

Again, Mike gets the feeling there’s more going on under the surface than he’s seeing, that El is having a different conversation with herself underneath the one she’s having with him. Stupid, messed up little kid. She’s talking about something personal. Mike can tell, and Max’s words flash through him as a warning, that shitty parenting sixth sense she’d talked about. Now’s not the time to press her on it. He’ll never press her on it, if she doesn’t want to talk about it. But if she does want to talk about it more, to help him understand…

“Why not?” he asks gently, hoping El doesn’t take the question the wrong way. 

“Because I was bad,” she whispers even more quietly, and Mike’s heart stutters in his throat. “I was so bad, and you’re good, Mike. I feel so stupid. No one’s supposed to see me like that. I’m supposed to be better now. Not like that.”

Mike inhales deeply, trying to unpack the implications of this slowly. There’s a memory dancing around the edges of his mind of Will, right after his dad left. They were sitting on his bed, listening to some of the music Jonathan liked that Mike didn’t really get, when Will said it: “What if he left because of me? Maybe I’m weird, or bad, and he didn’t want me.”

Mike had laughed, which was perhaps not the best reaction. But he couldn’t help himself. It was ridiculous; Will wasn’t bad. Will was great the way he was, and if his stupid asshole dad didn’t want him, then he was the one who was bad, not Will.

“You’re good, El,” he says. When El still doesn’t look at him, he raises his voice a little, speaking more strongly. “No, really. I know you’re good. It’s not bad to need some help once in a while. It’s not bad if you don’t want to be, like, super strong all the time. I mean, from what I’ve seen of her, Camille basically just shouts at her problems until they go away. How is that better than your reaction?”

El doesn’t say anything. She’s staring at her hands like she wants to burn through them with her eyes, but Mike knows she’s listening.

“It’s not,” he continues, his voice steady. “Everyone reacts differently to stress, and that asshole made you drink too, so I think it’s kind of amazing you held it together so well in the first place. Like me? If it had been me, I would have barfed on you or something. Max once got so drunk she thought her brother’s radio was an alien probe that was spying on her. You were way better than that.”

El is still quiet, so Mike keeps talking. The sound of his own voice is starting to make him nervous, like he’s saying too much and unraveling more and more of what he has with her. It’s not enough to shut him up, though, not if there’s a chance he can make her feel better.

“And even if you did throw up on me, I wouldn’t have minded. I’d still know you were a good person, you know?” Mike takes a deep breath. He’s going to leap off that cliff. He can feel it, swelling up in him like an orchestral climax. “I really like you, El, and I’m glad I could help you out, and I’m glad I got to make sure you were okay. That’s what friends do.”

“Friends,” El repeats. Her voice is a little stronger, and she’s looking at him. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, and Mike is feeling kind of breathless. He thinks (knows, more like) that he’s blushing, but it doesn’t even matter—there’s a string of perfect tension between him and her and Mike is floating along it like a total idiot and he doesn’t even mind. El is looking at him. She looks a little less torn up. As far as Mike’s concerned, that alone is enough to make all this worth it.

“Friends don’t lie,” she says, and it’s Mike’s turn to feel embarrassed. God, he had acted like the dopiest version of his twelve-year-old self that night, and El had remembered.

‘I feel like I know you. That I know that you are good.’ Mike swallows heavily around the memory, and suddenly he’s wondering if El remembers that too. That past-life, final puzzle piece feeling he got just from being around her. God, he’d been infinitely more embarrassing than her. Mike is pretty sure he thought the word “soulmate” coupled with her name at one point, and he hadn’t even had the excuse of being drunk.

“No, they don’t,” Mike says, pushing through his embarrassment like a goddamn Jedi because El fucking needs him to talk to her and not be a selfish angsty idiot. He’s gonna rise to the occasion this time. No more fuck ups. “So you know I’m telling you the truth.”

“I’m not as good as you think I am,” El says in a rush. She’s looking at her hands again. “I know you think I am and I’m…I want you to believe it, but I can’t lie, Mike. I’m not good. You don’t know—“

She breaks off, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Mike waits, patient. 

“There’s stuff you don’t know about me,” El finally finishes. “I’m messed up.”

This time, Mike does know what to say:

“El, everyone does shitty things sometimes.” Isn’t that the fucking truth. Mike has a good portion of shittiness he needs to check, himself. 

“You can do things that most people think are messed up and still be a good person. I think the fact that you’re even worried about lying about being good or whatever means you are a good person. Really bad people don’t give a shit about being bad.”

“Like Troy,” says El.

“Yeah!” She’s getting where he’s coming from, and Mike is so damn grateful. He’s talking too quickly, too passionately now, but he can’t bring himself to care. El is looking at him in rapt attention, and Mike wants to glow in that a little longer.

“Troy doesn’t give a crap about being an asshole, and he sure as hell doesn’t feel sorry for being a shitty person. He’s bad. But, like, your dad, for example—“ Mike’s going out on a limb here, but there’s no turning back, “Your dad is a cop, he’s probably had to do some things that most people might think of as messed up, but he’s still a good person. He still cares about the things that matter, and he’d probably feel bad if he ever hurt someone.”

Mike’s thinking, quietly, of Hopper’s daughter, the one he had back in the city. The one who’d died. He’s heard his mom make comments before, about how Hopper was so gruff and closed-off from the rest of them because he still felt guilty about it. It seems like a reasonable conclusion to draw that this comparison might help El out. Mike sincerely doubts she’d never hurt anyone unless she really had to. 

“He—“ El trails off, then starts again. Mike can’t get his eyes off her fidgeting hands, the chipped ballerina-pink polish on her nails. “I think he might have killed people, when he worked in the city. Bad people. But that’s not his fault. It was his job.”

“Exactly,” Mike agrees. “He’s still a good guy.”

“Mike, I’ve…what if I’d hurt people before? Or wished that they would be hurt. Would you, um.” El is struggling again, and Mike interjects. He can’t bear for her to have even a moment of thinking he of all people could possibly judge her. He’s the one who was selfish and jealous and stupid, not her. 

“El, I punched Troy in the face. If a bolt of lightening hit him in the middle of Camille’s house and killed him, I’d have been totally okay with that. Sometimes you want to hurt people who hurt you. It’s natural, and it definitely doesn’t make you bad. And, hey, you feel guilty about it. I don’t feel guilty at all about punching Troy, you know, so you’re a better person than me.”

El’s chin tilts up sharply, and Mike is swallowing again, the inside of his mouth suddenly sandpaper. God, her eyes. The little gold flecks are especially noticeable in this light.

“That’s not true. You’re good.”

Mike inhales sharply, blushing again, surprise-surprise. That other feeling is back too, the one from after the party. It’s a feeling Mike is pretty sure he has no right to, but he can’t stop it. He’s looking at El, drinking in the sight of this exact tilt of her head, memorizing those little gold flecks yet again, and Mike feels like he could explode from, like, feeling. From how much he feels around her. 

It’s not even that it’s a crush, exactly. Mike just feels like he belongs to her, as a part of her life however she wants him. He’s not going around writing Mrs. Eleanor Wheeler in his notebooks, or carving her initials and his into the bark of the kissing tree in the park. Being around her comes with a sweet, hurtful ache he can’t get enough of. And Mike’s okay with that.

Whatever she needs.

“Well, maybe we’re both good,” he says, quietly. El considers this carefully. Mike can see it flickering in her eyes, and that’s another thing he lov—likes about her. She thinks about everything like it matters, even the stupid throwaway shit people always toss off and take for granted. 

“I believe you,” she says, finally. 

And for some reason she reaches for him. Mike sees her thin, golden-tanned arms extend towards him and thinks, stupidly that whoa, no way is she actually trying to touch him. Maybe she’s reaching for one of the stoners, even though they’re at least forty feet away, or just, like, stretching her arms. She’s not trying to hug him. There’s no fucking way in hell.

Then El is hugging him, and Mike thinks what the fuck for a brief, stunned second before he wraps his arms around her instinctively. Like he’s done it a thousand times. She still smells like vanilla. Her hair is tickling his nose. His whole body is on fucking fire from how good it feels to hold her. El is shaking, slightly, but Mike doesn’t think she’s crying. Her chin is tipped into his shoulder and Mike can see her looking out over the bleachers in his mind’s eye, her eyes melancholic and far away. 

He doesn’t want it to feel like one of the best moments of his life, because El is hurting, and Mike doesn’t want to get off on her pain or whatever, but. It kind of is. When El draws away again, her cheeks pink, it feels like she’s ripped off one of his arms. 

“Sorry,” she says. “I just, um. No one really touched me, when I was a kid. Not nicely, at least, and Hop always hugs me when I’m sad. I guess I just—“

She blinks, looking as shocked as Mike feels that she revealed something about her childhood. Mike realizes that he doesn’t know anything about what El’s life was like before Hopper adopted her and she moved to Hawkins. He should be more shocked that Max’s suspicions are basically being confirmed, but it makes sense. He’s sensed that hurt in her, after all. She reminds him a lot of Will, sometimes. Will right after Lonnie left, when he was basically a walking wound. Mike gets the same feeling around El, like he’s paralyzed from wanting to help her. 

She looks embarrassed, right now. Probably because she accidentally told him something she didn’t mean to. 

“Hey,” Mike says gently. “I get it. Sometimes you just want someone to hug you. My dad was, um. Totally zoned out, not really noticing I was there. I understand, El.”

El sighs, high and fluttering.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, and it kills Mike that she thinks she needs to apologize for something that would have been totally okay under any circumstances, and for Mike was like Christmas coming early. Like El hugging him could ever be anything less than a fucking delight, honestly.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Mike says too quickly, too eagerly. “If you ever want someone to hug, I’m, you know, here.”

The rush of humiliating heat that overwhelms him is totally predictable, but that doesn’t lessen Mike’s utter mortification, especially when El glances at him with a little confused line between her brows. He’d been doing so well, and now he’s gone and cocked it up again by being an over-eager dweeb. What kind of creepy asshole goes around telling girls they can hug him whenever, like it’s some favor he’s doing? El probably thinks Mike wants to grope her or something, which is totally not what he meant.

She doesn’t leave, but the silence that stretches between them is kind of unbearable again, and Mike is painfully aware of the three inches of air that are separating her leg from his. Not touching her is just as bad as touching her. Mike is stuck in an endless, awful look of wanting and feeling bad for wanting and El looks so fucking far away again, sitting next to him. She could be in another world, and Mike realizes that he still doesn’t really know her. He can have embarrassing flashes of thinking he knows her from a past life, or even think the word soulmate like a dweeby twelve-year-old girl, but right now he’s painfully aware that when it comes down to it, El is just a girl who’s way out of his league who was nice to him a few times. He doesn’t know anything about her.

It’s this realization that causes Mike to blurt out,

“What’s your favorite movie?” 

“Hm?” El looks confused, and Mike wishes he had the willpower to knock himself out so he could check out from his own extreme embarrassment. But now that it’s out there, he kind of has to commit to it.

“What’s your favorite movie? Or, like, genre. Do you like sci fi, or fantasy, or horror…?” 

Mike forces himself to shut up, wincing at himself yet again. Thankfully, El doesn’t look annoyed, just thoughtful. Maybe she’s even grateful for a distraction from the weird, confessional tension they’ve just broken out of. Maybe. Mike would be okay talking about his deepest darkest secrets with her (not that there are that many), but that doesn’t mean El likes to talk about herself that way.

“Not horror,” she says, conclusive, her nose wrinkling adorably. Mike sighs in relief, not able to help his grin. He can’t deal with horror either. Max forces them to watch scary movies every Halloween, and every Halloween Mike sleeps with the light the second he’s safe from their teasing. 

“I like The Princess Bride,” El says softly. Mike’s mood lifts even more.

“You’ve heard of Aristotle, Socrates, Plato?” he asks, unable to help grinning.

El’s eyes go wide and delighted, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

“Morons?” she asks.

“Morons,” Mike confirms. The small, happy sound that escapes her is really close to a giggle. Not for the first time, Mike remembers making a fool of himself in the bathroom, and how he’d wanted to do it again just to hear her laugh. Just as quick, it passes, and Mike realizes he basically just confessing to having watched a movie that is kind of girly. More than kind of girly. It’s Holly’s favorite movie too, for fuck’s sake. 

“I took my baby sister to see it when it came out,” he explains quickly. “I don’t actually, you know, watch it on my own—“

“Mike,” El chides, “It’s a good movie. Just because there’s romance doesn’t mean it’s not for boys. That’s the whole point. Why do you think he wants to read it again at the end? Romance isn’t girly. It’s wonderful.”

This is one of the most opinionated sentences Mike has ever heard from El, and she tops it off with a wistful little sigh that tugs at his chest and makes his throat too dry. Romance. She’s talking about romance with him. That has to be a good thing. It has to be. Or maybe she’s just discussing it off-hand, in a friendly kind of way? Mike doesn’t know girls well enough to tell the difference.

He thinks, briefly, of other Princess Bride quotes he could recite and comes up totally short. For some stupid reason, the only one he can think of that’s remotely romantic is “There is a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. It would be a shame to damage yours”. Which he can’t say to El for obvious fucking reasons.

It doesn’t matter because the lunch bell rings, and El stands up. Watching her walk away from him is almost as bad as her breaking their hug. It really is like Mike is having something crucial amputated. El turns, looking over her shoulder, and pauses in her descent from the bleachers.

“Mike?” she asks, hands toying with her hair. 

Mike makes a kind of strangled noise that comes out as a “Yuuh?” He immediately contemplates knocking himself out again, but El doesn’t laugh at him. Mike doesn’t know when he’s going to stop being surprised that she doesn’t want to constantly humiliate him, but he hopes it’s soon. El deserves a lot more credit than Mike’s nerd reflexes want to give her.

“Do you, um. I liked talking to you,” she says in a rush, her face glowing. “We should—“

“Do you—“ Mike starts at the same time, and the both break off, yet another awkward, charged silence falling between them like a dead bird. “El,” Mike tries again, and this time it’s El’s turn to interrupt.

“I have practice thirty minutes after the last bell,” she informs him, bashfulness suddenly falling away into that cool, intense confidence Mike has seen glimmers of. When she stood up to Stacey for him, and to Camille that first day in the cafeteria. It sends a different kind of shiver through him, the quiet authoritative quality her voice has taken on settling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. 

“Do you…we could talk until practice, maybe,” she says. “I want to know your favorite movie, too.”

“Yes,” Mike says immediately, every neuron in his brain firing simultaneously in incredulous ecstasy. It seems unreal, that El Hopper, a pretty cheerleader who hadn’t even known he’d existed less than two weeks ago wants to hang out with him. Because that is what this would be, right? Hanging out. Talking about their lives, their interests. No excuses, no external complications. It’s too fucking perfect to be real. Mike would sooner expect Yoda to descend from the sky and inform him that he’s strong in the Force. 

“I’d really like that,” Mike half-speaks, half croaks. He swallows heavily. El is beaming at him. 

“Okay. Maybe we can meet in the library?” 

Okay, so it’s probably not a date-date. The library is not a very romantic location. Mike doesn’t know what he’d expected. Shakes and fries at Benny’s, maybe, like he’s John Travolta and she’s Olivia Newton John in Grease. But El doesn’t have time to leave school grounds before her practice starts, and it’s not like this is a date anyway. Mike’s stupid vision of a maltshop-style thing his parents might have done (and isn’t that a horrifying thought) is wishful thinking. 

The library’s great. Friend-time with El is a hell of a lot better than no time. Mike meant his promise to Camille to be whatever El needs. But he still is Michael Wheeler, Loser Dweeb occasionally prone to verbal diarrhea, of course, so his mouth has to say something else idiotic and totally humiliating without his explicit permission. And in this instance, that means all of his suppressed knowledge of The Princess Bride from his one viewing with Holly rushes through his brain like a sinus freeze, Mike’s stupid mouth latching on to the most inconvenient angle possible.

“As you wish,” he blurts.

He has just enough time to see El’s mouth open slightly in shock, her cheeks shining pink, to realize that he has fucked up very, very badly.

“Well, uh. Bye,” Mike says, and hightails it out of there.

He’s so miserable about screwing up his one perfect fucking chance to get to know El better without distractions he completely forgets that he has P.E. next period. And in his class is none other than Troy Harrington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers are: another panic attack for el, very brief allusions to traumatic events in her past in a dream sequence which include brenner being his usual shitty emotionally abusive self, victim blaming, and implied attempted molestation (attempted being key here, and this is never going to be an extremely central part of the story) sooo watch out for that. also max's stepdad and billy are mentioned. 
> 
> yo millie bobby brown's paris fashion week cheerleader get-up was personally designed for this fucking fic so if you want a glimpse at the cheerleader el aesthetic that's where to find it
> 
> uh i honestly don't know when this fic is supposed to specifically take place? i'm awful at dates, so the general outline is 'vaguely 80's'. anyway i don't know when the princess bride came out in relation to this so if the dates don't match up i'm gonna ask you all to turn the other cheek and chalk it up to artistic license. i wanted mike quoting it really, really badly and i'm willing to forfeit historical accuracy for it 
> 
> last note is that i still don't know how to format italics and i'm too tired to figure it out atm so i'm gonna say that the non-italicized dream section (is italicizing dream sequences a thing you're still supposed to do? i know it was circa ff.net in 2012) is because i don't find excessive italics aesthetically appealing and i'm a snob :) 
> 
> thank you again everyone who's given support on this i love you all very much and every kudos/bookmark/comment makes me extremely happy and has probably been re-read over and over when i need a boost. i really appreciate it!! <3


	6. In Which Justice Is Brought Down on Troy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i'm finally updating i'm sorry it's taken so long. don't really have an excuse except anxiety plus school work but the semester's almost over so hopefully i can finish this story over the summer!! 
> 
> you guys have been so good to me and i feel terrible for not responding to every comment promptly but know that i read them all over and over and love them all and all the love you guys give this dumb little story means the world to me
> 
> there are some trigger warnings as usual so check the end notes if you need to!! i hope this chapter turned out okay, it was another one i wrote way too many versions of (six to be precise) and this one is the least bad and i'm still not super duper happy with it but i'm done procrastinating. here it is, and happy reading to y'all

Mike is waiting for El in her favorite spot in the library when she rushes inside, her school clothes bundled under her arm and slightly out of breath from running. He’s at the sunny table she loves, where the light hits mid-afternoon so that you can see dust particles floating through the air like small daytime stars, but that’s not what El first notices. What she first notices is that he has a bloody nose. Mike doesn’t see her at first, holding a wad of toilet paper to his face that’s getting redder by the second and staring out the window, and he startles when El whispers his name.

“El!” he says too loudly. The librarian shushes him furiously from the front desk. “You came!”

El sits, and before she can stop herself, reaches for his face. Mike startles a second time but lets her remove the toilet paper. He's even paler than usual, and there's the beginning of bruising under both his eyes. The urge of protectiveness that washes over El is strong enough to overcome any embarrassment about touching him. After all, hadn't she hugged him earlier? And he'd said…

Well, El can’t stop thinking about what he said. Maybe it was just a joke. It’s just a movie, after all. It’s not like he was telling her that he’s in love with her, or even that he likes her. It was just a silly joke that he probably made at the spur of the moment without thinking about what it meant. But El is pretty much done with pretending she doesn’t like him. Especially when he’s sitting there in the puddle of syrupy late-afternoon light cast from the window, looking like a pretty porcelain doll.

“What happened to you?” she asks gently, and for some reason can’t stop herself from touching his cheek. It’s barely a brush of fingertips, but Mike inhales suddenly the second her skin meets his, and shifts infinitesimally closer to her, so that the pads of her fingers are fully against his cheekbone. It feels like sticking her fingers into an electrical socket, but El still doesn’t withdraw her hand. 

Mike shrugs, wiping his nose.

"Dodgeball. Troy threw a ball at my face, got me right in the nose. Of course, he pretended it was an accident like he literally doesn't practice throwing balls every day for football, and the coach didn’t even give him a slap on the wrist.”

El lets her hand fall, not surprised at how angry she suddenly is, but surprised on how much she wants to act on it. Troy hurting her had been bad, but she'd wanted to just put in the past and forget about it, assuming he didn't try anything again. But hurting her and hurting Mike…and he's been such a bully for years. El is sick of cowering from him and watching all the Mikes and Wills of the school do the same.

“Asshole,” she mutters, and Mike grins at her, color back in his face.

“Yep. But come on, don’t I look tough now? If I hadn’t just told you what really happened, I bet you’d have thought I fought off a whole gang of big muscled football players single-handed, right?” 

El can’t help but giggle at that, especially when Mike holds up his skinny arms and dramatically clenches his muscles.

“El, El,” he says, “These guns are nothing to laugh at. They are a serious threat. Combine that with my Jedi skills, and you’ve got a deadly weapon.”

“Very deadly,” El agrees, heart clenching with something that feels dangerously close to full-out love. Not that she’d know, never having been in it before. Suddenly, she remembers why they were actually meeting here. To get to know each other a little bit better. El doesn’t know Mike’s favorite movie, though she really does have her suspicions… 

“Mike,” she starts hesitantly, and Mike falls serious again just like that, looking at her with dark, earnest eyes. “I’ve never actually seen Star Wars.” 

Mike gasps like El has just confessed to murder, and it makes El laugh again in sheer relief. He had listened so patiently and been so understanding earlier, and that this is what it takes to actually horrify him is somehow the most reassuring thing he could have done. 

“You’ve never seen the world’s greatest movie?” Mike asks, incredulous. “Other than The Princess Bride, of course,” he amends, and falls abruptly silent, color rising in his cheeks like a hasty flame. El stays quiet, unable to look at him, knowing he’s thinking the same thing she’s thinking. That ‘as you wish’, thrown out so quickly and casually. The three words that had been keeping her from concentrating at all in any of her classes as she kept turning them over and over, hoping they meant what she wanted them to.

"That's not very fair, is it?" she says to fill the silence because Mike doesn't look like he's going to be capable of speech anytime soon. “That you’ve seen mine but I haven’t seen yours,” she clarifies, and then it’s her turn to blush furiously for phrasing it like that, in the most innuendo-laden way imaginable. Mike’s eyes are the darkest El’s ever seen, and she can’t help but track the movement of his throat as he swallows heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I guess it’s not,” he says, and the tension between them is at once so palpable El thinks she might be able to see it hovering in the air like the suspended dust. Then Mike clears his throat, and the moment eases. “Of course you have to see Star Wars. You even look like Princess Leia!” 

“I do?” El says, and Mike makes a head motion that’s halfway between nodding and shaking his head.

“I mean, you know, it’s a compliment but of course you look like yourself too. I mean obviously you look like yourself, you’re you, but Leia’s cool, and everyone has a crush on her—“ El cuts off Mike’s flustered rambling smoothly, her heart thrumming in her throat.

“Do you?” she asks.

“Huh?” Mike blinks. El hesitates for a moment, unsure if asking is violating the unspoken tension between them. Since lunch, she feels like she can tell Mike everything, but she has no idea how he feels. 

“Have a—have a crush on her,” El manages, and Mike meets her eyes with a quick, furtive look that sends liquid heat pooling into her. He glances away again, but El thinks she knows the answer.

“I mean,” Mike starts again, “Just the same as any other guy on earth. You should definitely watch it,” he says too loudly again, wincing slightly at his own change in volume.

“Mr. Wheeler, if you cannot keep it to a whisper, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the librarian frowns from her desk. Mike goes blotchy and purses his lips, and El can hardly stand how much she wants to touch him again.

"Maybe I could watch it with you? If you don't mind watching it again," she says before she can lose her nerve. Mike's eyes go shining so fast El feels all dizzy and starry again just looking at them.

“El,” he says seriously, “I could never, ever get tired of watching Star Wars. And watching it with you would be, you know…”

El waits for what it would be with baited breath, but Mike doesn’t finish. She fights back a crushing sweep of disappointment, focusing on his streaming nose again.

“God, Troy. He shouldn’t get away with treating people like this,” she says. It eases the awkwardness smooth as a knife through hot butter, and Mike gives a little grateful sigh at the change of subject.

“He always does, though. The sports players all have, like, systematic immunity. They could probably kill someone and get away with it.”

El’s head snaps up, inspiration striking her. It won’t be easy for her, especially since she knows telling him might get Camille in trouble, but if she did…

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way. My dad might be able to do something. If I told him about the party.”

“El.” Mike’s voice is so gentle, and his hand is reaching to gently loop her wrist. El turns it so her palm gently brushes his skin, his pulse fluttering against her like a trapped bird. “You don’t have to do that for me.” 

El stares at where they are touching, willing him to not let go.

“I want to,” she says softly. “What he did was…it’s hard for me to talk about, but I want to. He should be punished for it. It’s a terrible thing to do to someone.”

“It is,” Mike agrees, and sweeps his thumb over where her veins peek river green through her skin. El can’t help her shiver. It feels like everything outside of their little beam of light in the middle of the library isn't real, is distant and fading away and that El is safe enough here to tell Mike anything. She wants to tell him. She wants him to understand her, all of her, and know that he'll still sweep his thumb over her skin to reassure her.

It’s crazy. She shouldn’t trust him this much. It’s like El can’t even remember how long she’s actually known him. The words are out of her mouth before she can think it through.

“Mike,” she says, “I want to tell you why I was like that, at the party. But I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?” Mike asks, so sweetly and not pressuring her at all. El kind of wants to cry from how much she’s feeling. There’s no one around them, no one except the librarian, and El has a little bit of time. If she doesn’t tell him now, when would she? When would the timing feel as right and easy as it does now when she's so insulated from the outside world and Mike is all but holding her hand?

“I’m afraid you won’t want…” El doesn’t know how to finish the sentence without telling the truth. That she wants him to want her, as she really is. Real El, and not Popular El. But what if even saying that is enough to scare him away?

Somehow, Mike seems to understand.

“El,” he says, “I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would make me not like you. You’re my friend. And…and friends don’t lie, but they don’t always have to share things. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.”

That’s all it takes for El to make up her mind. She focuses very hard on his hand, his long fingers, pale and a bit bony around the knuckles, how pale he is against her tan. 

“When Troy touched me,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “It reminded me of something that almost happened to me before Hop adopted me.”

She here’s Mike’s slight intake of breath, but when she chances a look at his face, his expression doesn’t waver. He waits patiently until El starts to talk again.

“Before Hop adopted me, I was in foster care. Pa—my foster father specialized in fostering lots of kids. He’d redone his whole home so he could take as many of us as possible—there were open showers installed, we shared rooms with three of the others. There were no locks on the doors, no privacy. We all wore the same clothes, and he shaved our heads so our hair ‘wouldn’t get in the way’. I was only close with two of them. My foster sister, Kali, who left when I was twelve, and my foster brother.”

El can’t bring herself to say his name. She lets Kali’s face fill her memory instead, her wicked dark eyes daring El to rebel, to question, to think for herself. Kali, who said she was running away to Chicago. El doesn’t even know if she’s still alive.

Mike’s thumb is moving again, back and forth. It’s grounding enough for El to go on.

“Kali was seventeen when she ran away, and he was three years older than me. After Kali left, he was my best friend, but. We were—it was confusing, being so close, and I was growing up a bit, and things became strange. One day he tried to, to touch me, and I don’t think he even knew it was wrong. We were homeschooled, there wasn’t any context, but all those hormones and…I don’t really blame him,” El says. She’s said this all before, to Dr. Owens and to Hop, but never to anyone her own age, and never anyone whose opinion she cares about as much as Mike’s. 

“I told my foster father what had happened. He—I still try to love him a little bit, even after everything, but he was a bad man. He’d lock us in this closet when we didn’t do what he wanted, and he kept my foster brother in there for two weeks, gave him food through a cat flap. We could all hear him screaming and pounding to be let out for the first few days and after that he was totally quiet. That was even worse. When he got out he didn’t talk to anyone. He didn’t talk to me. It was like he’d died. I tried to follow Kali six months later but—”

The words no longer feel like poison being extracted from a wound every time El says them, but God do they still hurt. 

“I blamed myself for what happened to him for a long time. I guess when Troy tried to touch me like that, and I felt so helpless, I just slipped back into who I was then. I don’t ever want to go back to that, Mike,” El says, and his name is her lifeline. She can’t tell what Mike’s thinking, but she can see his throat working again, can see all the things he’s starting to say dying before he lets them leave his mouth. His eyes are over-bright, and El has a hard time looking at them. 

“I don’t want to say the wrong thing,” he finally says. Fear clenches El’s stomach in an iron fist. “But everything you told me only makes me think more of you. I’m—I don’t want to be patronizing, but I think you’re incredibly strong, and brave, and I think you were just as strong at that party as you are now. I’m really glad I’ve gotten to know you.”

It sounds like he really means it. El doesn’t usually think of herself as strong. As surviving, maybe, but there are kids who have gone through much worse than her and come out like Kali, bold and unapologetically eager to go after what they want. El isn’t like that at all. Here she is with Mike holding her hand and she still can’t ask for what she wants. She’s only strong in the sense that she’s still here, still existing and trying to make the best of things. She doesn’t even always succeed at that, still shuts down and hides herself away when things become too overwhelming for her. But Mike thinking she’s strong…it’s important. El can almost believe it. 

“Everything I did and said at the party, with you,” El starts, because this is what real strength is to her. If Kali could up and leave and risk Papa’s icy rage to go and be free to do what she wanted in one of the biggest cities in the country, El can be honest with Mike, who’s given her no reason not to be. “I meant it. I’m sorry if that’s, if it’s too much, but I did.”

Mike smiles at her, and it’s a little bit wobbly, but it fills El up with warm, fluttering feelings. She feels safe. El never used to feel safe telling her story. Even in Dr. Owens’ office, after every assurance that everything she said was confidential, El was always terrified that somehow Papa would find out that she was telling on him and punish her. 

“I did too,” Mike whispers. “I mean, I don’t know if I said everything out loud, but I meant all of it.” 

El lets her fingers curl against Mike’s wrist, feels him shiver slightly at the touch. She lets silence fall between them, but it’s not uncomfortable this time so much as something that feels like a promise. El can’t think of any more secrets to tell him except how she feels about him, and even that doesn’t seem nearly as world ending anymore. After what feels like a very long time, she forces herself to stand up, drawing her arm away and noticing Mike’s face fall. 

“I should go, if I want to be on time,” she says gently. Another idea strikes her, and El bites her lip, toying with her hair out of nervous instinct. “If you wanted, maybe you could come to practice? It would probably be pretty boring for you, but if you did want to—“

“You want me to watch you?” Mike blurts, and goes blotchy again, his cheeks threatening the dark of the blood still caking his nose. 

“It really is kind of boring, sorry,” El says, too quickly. Mike shoots to his feet so fast El jumps a little.

“I want to,” he says firmly, looking at her with such intensity El smiles so hard her cheeks hurt. “Can I walk with you?” 

“Yes,” says El decisively, and takes his hand. Mike freezes for a moment, then threads his fingers through hers, squeezing.

“I see you brought your boyfriend to practice,” Camille says, arching a perfectly manicured brow when she sees Mike perched on the bleachers, his nose no longer actively bleeding. “What happened to his face?” 

“Troy,” El says simply, and Camille’s eyes narrow.

“Fucker. Want me to kill him for you?” 

“Actually, I was going to tell Hop about what happened,” El says, looking at her for a reaction. “But I wanted to ask you first. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Camille rolls her eyes.

“Ellie, I don’t give a shit if your dad slaps me on the wrist so long as that asshole is properly punished. If telling the Chief is what it takes to make that happen, then whatever. What, do you think saying I’d call him that night was an empty threat?”

The rush of overwhelming gratitude El feels for her pushes her to reach forward and hug Camille, something she’s never initiated before. El’s never been the type to touch people willingly, even ones she trusts, but something’s changed, and now she never wants to hold back from being as close as she can to the people she cares about again. Camille goes still, tentatively hugging her back.

“I’m proud of you, y’know,” she whispers, her bubble-gum scented breath tickling El’s ear. She pulls back a second later, and El can see the moment her Queen Bee mask slots back into place. “Now go run your fucking laps, bitch.” 

Practice goes by faster than it ever has before. El can feel Mike’s eyes on her; so intent on her every move El’s whole body sings with it. She feels invincible, every muscle working in perfect coordination under the knowledge that Mike is watching her. When practice is over, Mike approaches her, his cheeks shining pink as he nods at Camille and Jenny. 

“Hey,” he greets them, and Camille actually nods back, her lips barely pursed.

“Wheeler,” she returns. “I’m not surprised you came out for a chance to see Ellie flip around showing off her panties.”

Mike’s face flames, but he holds Camille’s eyes, and El senses a current of understanding, of mutual reluctant approval, passing between them like a shock.  
She’s still sweating, and her hair is a frizzing mess, but she can’t find it in her to worry about Mike seeing her like this.

“Hey,” Camille says, her tone different, “Wheeler, you and Henderson share, like, all your nerdy science classes, right?” 

“Uh, yeah,” says Mike warily, but El recognizes that slightly pinched look and knows Camille’s trying to hide something she thinks is a weakness.

“Tell him…” she starts, and Jenny appears as if out of thin air, summoned by the potential for Camille’s embarrassment like an evil cupid.

“Tell him that Camille wants to have his babies,” she says cheerfully, dodging Camille’s slap with practiced deftness. Mike snorts, and shoots El a knowing look that she returns, liking the idea that she’s sharing an inside joke with him.

“Jennifer Hayes, you shut your whore mouth,” Camille snaps. She turns back to Mike, flushing prettily. “Tell Henderson his hair is a ridiculous fucking eyesore and that it’s a distraction no one in our dumbass English class needs so he should, like, cut it a.s.a.p. before I hack it off for him.” 

“Um, sure?” Mike offers, looking so adorably bewildered El takes pity on him.

“My dad is waiting,” she informs Camille and Jenny, and suddenly she’s the recipient of the knowing looks. “Mike?” she prompts. Mike’s eyes go a little wide.

“What did you think?” El asks him, taking his hand again so he can get the hint and walk with her out to the parking lot, where Hop is waiting and probably will ask questions. El still doesn’t care. She’s done being afraid of her answers.

“You were, I mean, it was…” Mike babbles, and El lets her fingers tighten through his, natural as anything. 

“You were amazing,” he finishes, firm this time. El looks at him and thinks she really could fly if she threw herself into the air again. It feels like the weight of a thousand secrets have been lifted from her at once, and the only thing keeping her with her feet on the ground is the last one; her feelings for Mike.

“I’ve got to go,” she says when she spots Hop’s car, making out the foreboding shelf of his brow even in the dimness of twilight. “But Troy is never going to bother us or anyone else again, and we’re going to watch Star Wars, okay?” 

It’s so easy, saying what she thinks, what she wants. El doesn’t know why it’s taken her this long to do it. Mike is looking at her like she’s something shining, and El lets herself look back. On a whim, before she goes to the car, she gets on her tiptoes, closes her eyes against her nerves, and brushes her lips to the smoothness of his cheek. 

“Bye,” she whispers, and runs without looking back so she can’t see the look on Mike’s face.

Hop is giving her the look that means she has explaining to do when the car door clicks closed. 

“Good practice?” he asks. El clenches her fists into her cheer skirt and clings to that powerful feeling. Mike, blushing and stuttering because of her. Wanting to protect him, like he did for her. 

"I need to tell you something," she says, and Hop raises his eyebrows. El doesn't usually volunteer information, and he's used to coaxing it out of her when he thinks it's something important, usually using the techniques Dr. Owens talked to him about while El was still in therapy after a few disastrous tantrums. She knows she's startled him and reaches for his hand on impulse.

“On Saturday, Camille had a party…” she starts, and is surprised at how easy it is to tell. It’s poison again, leeching out of her bit by bit, but it’s a relief too, and by the time El’s done, Hop’s face is the darkest he’s seen it.

“Okay, kid. Thank you for telling me,” he says, and squeezes her hand. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna deal with it.” 

El squeezes back and doesn't even bother to feel guilty about it. Troy deserves it, and she's done hurting herself to help people who don’t deserve it.

……………………

Mike’s Tuesday is the best one of his life until he’s called into the principal’s office. Sure, he’s literally up half the night thinking about El kissing his cheek, and holding his hand, and promising to watch Star Wars with him, and trusting him enough to tell him about her past, but hey, Mike thinks about El until it’s ridiculously late most nights anyway so what else is new? He nearly crashes his bike into the Parsons’ mailbox on the way to school remembering the flutter of her hair against his cheek, her vanilla smell, the dampness her lips left behind, and by the time he meets up with the Party at the lockers, he’s so deliriously ecstatic about life in general he’s pretty much functionally brain dead. He does, however, remember to relay Camille’s weird message to Dustin.

“Camille says your hair is a ridiculous eyesore and that it’s, I dunno, driving her to distraction? In English class? And that you should cut it before she does.”

“She wants me,” Dustin says solemnly, even as his face lights up. He slams his locker shut and smoothes his hair. The curls bounce right back up. “It’s confirmed. In girl-talk that really means she loves these luscious locks.”

“Not trying to rain on your parade, but maybe that’s wishful thinking,” says Lucas, dubious. 

“Actually, Jenny Hayes did say that means she wants to have your babies. I think. Girls are weird,” Mike says. He doesn’t think El is weird, mostly because of his ridiculous past-life soulmate type feelings, but he gets the sense that maybe she’d be a little weird to most people. She’s unexpectedly tough as nails beneath the startled-fawn exterior, after all, and the fact that she’s as pretty as she is and still so nice is weird in any case.

“Much as I loathe to say it, I think Wheeler is right. When girls say they hate something, it usually means they like it. And speaking of that…when did this conversation with Camille take place?” Max smirks. Mike feels himself go red on cue. “Are you guys buddies now?” 

“It was at cheerleading practice. El invited me to come and watch,” Mike admits. Dustin actually whoops, and Lucas gives him a congratulatory slap on the back.

“Did your guys’ talk at lunch go well then?” Will asks, beaming at him. Mike can’t help but smile back helplessly like a total idiot. He knows they’ll tease him like crazy if he tells them all of it, but he can’t hold back how good he feels right now.

“Yeah. I mean, um, she—“ She’d told him what Mike is pretty sure is her biggest secret. She’d trusted him so much it still is kind of taking his breath away. And he’s not going to betray that to anyone, including his best friends. “She wants to watch Star Wars with me. And we, um, we held hands. And she kissed my cheek.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Dustin half-shouts, and then all three of them are slapping Mike on the back, congratulating him like he just won the Kentucky Derby on foot.

“I think she really likes you,” Will assures him. “I mean, beyond any doubt.”

Mike can’t disagree. Even his nerd-paranoia cannot deny such blatant evidence as a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s very middle school but I’m happy for you, man,” Lucas says, and Max’s smirk grows.

“It’s so fucking middle school. It’s a start, for sure, but these aren’t the fucking middle ages, Wheeler. You don’t have to give her scary police chief dad a dowry of five cows before you get to kiss her on the lips.” 

“I know that,” Mike informs her grumpily. “But I’m not going to just go up to her and kiss her. It’s—it’s important that she initiates it. I don’t want to force her to do anything.” 

“God, you two are disgustingly pure,” Max rolls her eyes. “Seriously, she’s into you, she wants to bone you. You really want to seal the deal, tell her to sit on your face so you can eat your way to her heart.”

Dustin actually gags, and Mike thinks he’s going to explode. With rage at her talking about El in such a demeaning way, obviously. Definitely not because that mental image is fucking with his head in ways Mike doesn’t want to admit to.

“As much as I love Mike, that really wasn’t something I needed to be thinking about on a Tuesday morning,” Will says, shaking his head, and Max's grin turns even more shit eating.

“It’s not like you haven’t gotten off thinking about it, huh, Wheeler?” 

“Are you sure Mike isn’t the one you want to be dating?” Lucas asks, tugging on her sleeve. “You seem awfully concerned with his sex life…”

“Ew,” Max and Mike say in unison, looking at each other in synchronized horror. The bell rings, and Mike’s back to daydreaming about El until the announcement comes through.

“Will Michael Wheeler report to the principal’s office? Michael Wheeler, please report to the principal’s office.”

"What did you do?" Max mouths at him, but Mike is too busy steeling his resolve to roll his eyes at her.

His suspicions prove accurate when he enters the office to find Troy and his father on one side of the room, and Chief Hopper, El, Camille, and Jenny on the other side. Principal Kimble is rubbing his temples with his fingers, looking wrung out and like he wishes this could just be over with. Mike doesn’t have a single fucking shred of sympathy for him when he sees El’s white, pinched face, the worrying of her hands in her skirt he knows means she’s closing in on herself in panic.

“Hey,” he says softly, addressing her more than anyone else in the room. El’s head whips around, and her eyes light up.

“Hi,” she breathes. The Chief turns too, giving him a look that definitely doesn’t bode well for Mike’s future ability to reproduce, but he doesn’t even care. He sits himself down in the empty chair next to Jenny, who surprises him by touching his shoulder reassuringly.

“Mr. Wheeler. Thank you for coming so quickly. We are trying to resolve a matter between Mr. Harrington and Ms. Hopper, and are looking to get as many opinions as possible before we jump to hasty punishments,” Kimble says, steepling his fingers under his chin. Mike grits his teeth against the surge of total fury that sweeps through him. There had been an entire household of people who saw what Troy tried to do to El, and the school still is dragging their feet as much as fucking possible when it comes to punishing him. Not on Mike’s watch.

“I know why I’m here,” he says shortly. “Do you want to hear my account of what happened?”

Kimble nods, and Mike tells the whole story without looking for El’s reaction. He hears a little startled exhale that has to be hers when he gets to the threats Troy used to separate them, and Kimble stops him with an imperious hand.

“So you left, and didn’t witness what happened after that?”

Mike is honestly going to strangle him. He thinks he could kill forty people in cold blood right now and not break a sweat. Not losing his temper takes every ounce of energy Mike has. 

“Like I said,” he answers, “I wanted to stay with El when Troy started saying he was going to make her drink with him.” He’d wanted to stay with her for his own selfish reasons too, but no one needs to know that right now. “She didn’t want me to get hurt, and I left when she asked me to. Unlike some people, I actually listened to what she wanted me to do like a decent human being.”

“So Eleanor did stay with Mr. Harrington willingly?” 

Mike really is going to explode, but Jenny beats him to it.

“Willingly? You call staying with him because he’s threatening to beat the shit out of her friend willing? He was flat out threatening to assault Mike, of course she wasn’t in a position to say no to him. She was obviously coerced.” 

Mike feels like an asshole for being startled at Jenny's eloquence. Maybe Camille disliked him for good reason if he was always this surprised when girls like her said something that wasn't totally insipid. Mike hates the athletes for oozing superiority just because they can, like, kick balls around. It's no wonder Camille kind of hated Mike for doing the same fucking thing with his academic record. 

“Language, Ms. Hayes,” Kimble says, sounding so much like Mike’s dad his hands clench into fists automatically, knuckles popping out furious and white. 

“She agreed to have a drink with me,” Troy sneers. “Wheeler is just jealous because he wanted her for himself and I messed up his plans. Girls play hard to get all the time. You know how it is, Mr. Kimble.”

The way Kimble’s face softens slightly as he turns to Troy is too much. Mike finally glances at El, and the resigned set of her mouth hurts him more than Troy’s fist to his face. 

“There was a whole houseful of people who saw what happened,” Camille says, green eyes blazing. “There is no excuse for not punishing him.”

“She was screaming at him to get off of her,” Jenny agrees. “Screaming. People heard and saw. I had to try to pull him off of her, and he elbowed me in the stomach. It bruised. Look!” She pulls up her shirt, and sure enough, the yellowing bruise, faint as it is, shows up starkly against the paleness of her skin. Kimble goes white; sweat beading visibly along his upper lip. 

“Well, the incident didn’t happen on school grounds—“

“Him hitting Mike in the face did, and Troy had harassed El for months!” 

“—And I just don’t think there’s enough hard evidence to justify—“

"There is abundant evidence," the Chief says, and Mike's whole body goosebumps at the barely restrained fury in his voice. "Do you want to call every single kid who was at this party? Because I have nothing but time. I'll wait. I'm sure Mr. Harrington and his son can wait too. Go ahead, make an announcement. Ask for every kid that was at the party to report to the office. And while you're at it, why not call in every kid who's ever felt bullied or threatened by him at the same time? I'm sure we'd all be interested in what they have to say."

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Kimble says. “It’s out of my jurisdiction to punish Mr. Harrington for an incident that happened outside of school.”

“Do you think he’d prefer to be punished through legal force?” Hopper asks, leaning forward. Mike is kind of grateful he can’t see the look in his eyes—he’s seen the Chief in intimidation mode before, and it’s enough to make stone-cold criminals want to piss themselves.

“As Principal Kimble has said,” Mr. Harrington begins pompously, but there’s a ratty, frightened glint in his eye. “There really isn’t enough evidence against my son to justify punishment for something that allegedly occurred at a private residence. This interrogation is no better than a witch hunt. Are you going to take the word of a boy who is obviously jealous of my son's popularity with the ladies—" he shoots Mike a smug look, and Mike bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood to keep himself from interrupting, "as gospel? This is clearly a matter of two adolescent boys competing over the affections of the same girl. It's all just boys being boys, and punishing my son for these natural shenanigans is—“

"In case you hadn't noticed," Hopper says icily, "There are three girls in the room, one of whom just showed us a bruise on her stomach your son gave her. That doesn't sound like just boys being boys to me."

“Surely your son can serve a few detentions,” Kimble interjects quickly. “More as a precaution than anything else, you understand. And it really is a much lighter punishment than juvenile hall.”  
"I'd like to make something very clear," Hopper announces loudly. Mike shivers at the icy resolve in his voice and wonders what the fuck Hopper is going to do to him once he finds out Mike's in love with his daughter.

"You're going to suspend this kid for at least a week. If you don't punish him for breaking someone's nose, I'm sure you can find someone else he's threatened or assaulted in the last few months and have it be for that. You are going to revoke his sports privileges for the rest of the semester. And you are going to make it very clear to him that if he ever bothers anyone else like this again, he will be expelled. I don't know what kind of school you think you're running, but what he did to my daughter was attempted rape, and he assaulted two other students and I know for a fact that he’s harassed and harmed plenty of others on school grounds. If he isn’t already, the second he turns eighteen he’ll be tried as an adult in court, and I am not afraid to get the force involved if the school refuses to punish him. Do I make myself clear?” 

A total, icy silence settles over them and Camille lets out a low whistle. El looks torn between mortification and something like pride, and Hopper has one hand protectively on her tiny shoulder. It makes Mike smile to see it, in spite of the grim circumstances. He's glad El has people to look out for her who love her.

“Well,” Kimble says, now visibly shining with nervous sweat, “those do seem like fair punishments, Mr. Harrington. And your son will be able to join the football team in the spring assuming he stays on his best behavior. And a short suspension is much less of an issue on his permanent record than what might happen if Chief Hopper gets the police force involved."

Troy and his father are identical in their glowers. 

“I will, of course, be speaking to my lawyer,” Mr. Harrington sniffs, and Hopper stands up abruptly, towering over him like a vengeful god. 

"You do that," he says in a low, dark voice that makes Mike shudder again. Mr. Harrington gulps. "But I'd also like to make it clear that separate of any legal action if your son ever comes near my daughter and her friends again, I will do to him anything he does to them.” 

Troy looks ready to piss himself, even as he tries to fix his mouth in a sneer. Mike can’t help his satisfied smile. He meets El’s eyes, and her mouth quirks up ever so slightly. She reaches across Hopper’s now vacant chair to squeeze Mike’s hand just as Hopper turns back towards them, and it’s Mike’s turn to fear losing control of his bladder.

“Let’s go, Troy,” Harrington the Elder is saying, and Mike can tell by his tone he’s probably not going to be calling his lawyer. The office door slams shut behind them, and Principal Kimble lets out an undisguised sigh of relief. 

“Well, I thank you all for your help in resolving this matter,” he says pompously. “Now, back to class with you. I’m sure your teachers will be missing you.” 

“Ellie will be coming home with me," Hopper announces, smiling down at her with a softness Mike has never seen before. "She's been through enough of an ordeal today, and her attendance is perfect."

“Yes, yes, very well,” Kimble says. Mike has a suspicion he’ll be treating himself to strong drink the second they’re gone. “The rest of you may leave.” 

“Wheeler,” Hopper says sharply. “Come walk with me a moment.” 

El looks at him with wide eyes, and tugs on Hopper's sleeve. "I don't think—"

“I’m not gonna kill him, sweetheart, I just want to talk to him.” 

Mike follows him out into the office waiting room, where they wait until Camille and Jenny are gone. Els gives them one last hesitant look, but leaves too, probably to linger outside and try to overhear their conversation.

“I’m gonna make this quick, kid,” Hopper says, looking Mike in the eye. Mike fights the urge to gulp and stares back, trying to project good intentions towards El, deferential respect to Hopper’s authority, and admirable stubbornness when it comes to the girl he likes simultaneously. Maybe it works, because the corner of Hopper’s mouth twitches up. “You like my daughter.” 

Mike can’t deny it. He nods, pursing his lips to keep himself from grimacing. 

“Okay,” acknowledges Hopper, nodding himself. “I know how it goes. You seem like a good kid. Better than I was at your age, in any case. It’s good that you were willing to stand up for her, and I’m glad you obviously know to listen to what she wants. Don’t hurt her, or you’ll have me to deal with, and make sure you stay safe in anything you choose to do with her. I like to think I raised her right, and you guys are almost eighteen. That’s old enough to make your own decisions.”

Mike feels like he’s on fire, because he’s pretty much certain Hopper just gave him a very tentative okay to have safe sex with his daughter at some point in the future, which is probably the furthest possible thing from the “put your dick anywhere within a hundred feet of her and they’ll never find the body” talk he was expecting. 

“Yes sir,” Mike says obediently. He may think it’s a weird as fuck stance to take, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Or not much, anyway. “Um, sir, isn’t, aren’t you—“ 

“Going to threaten you and do the whole intimidation act?” Hopper finishes, amused. “Nah. You’re smart enough to figure it out. She deserves to be happy, and if you can make her happy without hurting her, then Godspeed to you, kid. Glad we had this little chat.” 

He claps Mike on the shoulder as he stands, giving Mike a smile that’s somehow more terrifying than all his furrowed-browed threatening looks. Mike can’t even stand up for a full moment, totally wrong-footed. El's scary police chief dad doesn't expect a dowry of five cows and doesn't want to castrate him, and actually seems weirdly supportive of Mike potentially dating her. Either Mike's miraculously managed to make a decent impression, or he's so nerdy and nonthreatening Hopper isn't even worried.

Either way, and even with the stress of the meeting and a busted nose, Mike can’t help but grin so broadly Max elbows him the second he gets back to class, raising her eyebrows.

Mike doesn't bother to respond. He knows his face is giving everything away, but what secrets does he have left from these people? El's the only one who maybe doesn't know, or at least not all of that, and there's nothing standing in the way of Mike changing that anymore. He can't even find it in himself to be afraid, not remembering the terrified glint in Troy's eyes beneath his sneer, El's lips on his cheek, and her soft, small fingers  
threaded through his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: discussion of past abuse, including attempted molestation. discussion of attempted sexual assault from chapter four and victim blaming mentality from a few characters. lots of crass innuendo and swearing but what else is new? 
> 
> okay so i get that the least scene is probably unrealistic for how that situation would be handled but at this point i'm just kind of shrugging and hoping for the best. i'm definitely more of a characterization person than a realistic plot person so let's all pretend it makes sense because troy deserves it and this is just a silly little love story abt these two crazy kids.
> 
> i see so many overprotective hopper stories and i just can't see him, like, putting a chastity belt on el. i feel like he would start out as overprotective until he figures out that el just rebels more when he tries too hard to keep her safe (see season 2 cabin tantrums) and eventually would realize he has to let her grow up and make her own mistakes and let her decide when she needs his protection. so that's my interpretation of dad hopper! and c'mon mike is so obviously a good kid i can't see hop doing everything in his power to keep them apart like some fics do
> 
> i never thought this story would end up being kind of heavy when i first started writing it, and i realized that for me personally i can't as a writer separate el's character from the trauma she experiences on the show. that's definitely not to say el is defined by her trauma, but that an el that hasn't experienced it would be so different in how she interacts with ther world i just don't know if i have the skill to characterize that el and still have it recognizeably be her.
> 
> so there's my meta for my own dumb little story! again i'm super sorry about the long update time but y'know life and school are rough and summer is almost here. i have every intention of finishing this story and i'm not going to o back on that <3


	7. In Which They Watch Not One, But Two Movies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends there was a little blip with the first update of this chapter but i think it's fixed now!! my semester is over and i passed all my classes and am in a very good mood, and as a result this chapter is nothing but godforsaken schmoopiness. and for once there are no trigger warnings except the usual occasional historically accurate homophobia. 
> 
> as always thank you thank you thank you for being so gosh darn nice to me. this fandom is so lovely and supportive and i almost wanna get a tumblr just so i can interact more with y'all. you guys have gotten me through a long and trying semester full of terrible gen eds and icky comp classes that made me want to hate writing and you have my sincerest thanks!! <3 
> 
> now enjoy the schmoop!

“’Sup, dweeb squad?” 

Camille slams her lunch tray down at their table with unnecessary force, and Mike inhales a mouthful of juice that goes down the wrong pipe. Coughing and spluttering, he’s still trying to catch his breath when El’s small, warm hand lands on his back, sliding smoothly over his shoulder in a gesture that’s terrifyingly intimate. Predictably, Mike chokes even harder.

“Are you okay?” she’s asking, all soft and breathy in his ear as she sits down next to him. Mike makes an unattractive aborted noise that comes out as a sort of “slurghh". Apparently, that's enough for El. She smiles, and her hand stays on his shoulder.

“God, Wheeler, I guess you use up all that brainpower for, like, science or whatever. It is so you to not even be able to drink juice.” 

“Are you just here to insult us?” Max asks, arching an eyebrow at her as Camille slides into the spot across from Dustin, tugging Jenny down next to her. Dustin makes a strangled juice-choking noise minus the juice, going furiously red when Camille beams at him.

“We’re here so Ellie can sit with her boyfriend!” Jenny chirps. El exhales sharply, and Jenny turns apologetic. “Sorry, was I not supposed to say that?” 

“Oh please, they obviously need a push if they haven’t made it official. Wheeler’s seen her underwear, for Christ’s sake,” announces Camille. Mike cringes, glaring at her when the rest of the party gasps. She smirks back at him, and Mike has to resist the urge to clap a hand over her mouth so she can’t say anything else purposefully open to vast misinterpretation. What Dustin sees in her, honestly. 

“Mike, you dog!” Dustin crows. “What was all that chaste shit about, like, tender kisses to the cheek and holding hands then? What about the dowry of five cows?” 

Camille laughs more than necessary at that, and Dustin puffs up ridiculously, looking at her with such an obviously lovesick expression Mike kind of feels like he’s intruding on something sacred and possibly obscene. 

“I watched her at practice, and El did a bunch of cool flips, that’s all. God, you people have dirty minds,” Mike snaps, glowering at them all. “Sorry,” he mouths to El. She shrugs, cheeks pink and eyes shining. 

“Wait, you kissed her cheek? Oh my god, so cute!” Jenny squeals, at a high enough pitch to make Will wince. 

“No, I kissed his,” El says calmly. Her hand moves from Mike’s shoulder to find his hand under the table. He threads his fingers through hers automatically. 

“And you didn’t tell us this because…?” Camille says.

“Because you’d make a big fuss over it,” El answers. 

“Would not,” Camille says, though her dangerous smile tells a different story. “I mean, kindergarteners kiss each other on the cheek all the time. I’ll buy the congratulations balloons when you kiss for real.” 

“I’ll help,” Max agrees. “We’ll throw a whole ‘Mike and El Finally Confessed Their Love and Made Out’ party.” 

“Oh my god, you guys. It’s not like that,” Mike groans, hating Max with every fiber of his being. She’s so goddamn nosy and never knows when to butt out and Camille is apparently the same. If god forbid, the two of them actually become friends, they're going to drive Mike into an early grave and possibly execute a plot for world domination. Mike shudders at the vision and El pats his back.

"Yeah, yeah, we know. Your love is too pure for a little tongue,” Lucas says. “I’m sorry to say my love for you does not overcome my desire to stick my tongue in your mouth, babe,” he tells Max solemnly. 

“Well, I’ve always said the way to my heart is through my tonsils. Literally.”

“That’s not how human anatomy works—“ Will pipes up, just as Jenny decides to speak.

“You guys totally should kiss. Ellie is a great kisser.” 

Total silence falls over the table, and El’s fingers tighten through Mike’s. She’s glaring furiously at Jenny, and the aggressive glint in her eyes does things to Mike's stomach. She's also blushing. The implication knocks Mike over the head like a bowling ball dropped from approximately nine feet above him. 

“Wait…how would you know?” Mike asks. Jenny is cheerfully oblivious and chatters away her answer through bites of lunch. 

“Well, y’know, truth or dare, obviously, at Cammie’s birthday last year. Mark Roland dared me to kiss Ellie for at least thirty seconds with tongue because, like, lesbians are hot I guess? He was really gross about it, like it was some fetish, so obviously I was like ‘if Ellie and I were men would you still get off on it?’ and he was all ‘ew, gross’ so of course I asked him why that would be different, because if he wants to be all icky and sexual about, like, lesbians, he better be at least be supportive of all gay people, y’know?” 

Will is staring at Jenny with wide, shocked eyes, totally pale, and Mike flashes back to that night Sophmore year. Will had gone to Mike’s house after the party, and he’d had lipstick on his neck and the same look in his eyes he got when Troy called him a fagot. Mike had taken him down to the basement, wiped the lipstick off, and waited for Will to tell him what was wrong. The ‘I like boys’ confession was both surprising and also something Mike thought might have made sense to him for a long time, maybe as long as he’d known Will. 

‘Jenny was so hurt,’ Will had said. He was chewing his lower lip in between words, probably to keep from crying. ‘She’s gonna hate me. They’re all gonna hate me.’

But Jenny hadn’t said anything about it the next week, though word had spread from other people. Mike had never stopped to think that maybe that was because she was a good person. He had always just kind of dismissed her as ‘popular girl, not as bitchy as Stacey, likes Will'. Now, her eyes flicker up to Will's, the set of her features somber and knowing. She reaches out lightly to pat the back of his hand, white-knuckled against the edge of the table. Will exhales, and finally smiles. 

“Get on with the story, bitch, before Wheeler passes out from shock,” Camille says, breaking the tense moment at the perfect time. “God, your rambling is annoying.” 

“Fine, you stuck-up ho,” Jenny sniffs, and they both giggle, El smiling with them. Mike thinks he’ll never, as long as he lives, understand the social dynamics of girls. “So I didn’t want anyone to think I thought there was anything wrong with kissing her, so Ellie and I kissed and it was nice. She tasted a lot nicer than some stupid guy and y’know, if she wasn't super obviously into boys or whatever I would've totally done it again."

"Thanks, Jen," El says softly. "That was my only kiss," she says, even quieter so that only Mike can hear her. He swallows, thinking about Jenny's words. How could anyone be so casual about kissing El? Jenny knew what she tasted like, and that information is going to drive Mike crazy for the rest of the week at least. El’s sipping a can of Dr. Pepper, and Mike wants to know if that's what he'd taste if he kissed her right now. Maybe she uses a special toothpaste or gum, like her vanilla perfume, or shampoo, or whatever smell it is that's always driving Mike crazy. He wants to know everything about her. The creepy part of him wants to watch her chew gum and brush her teeth, stares helplessly at her out of the corner of his eye as she shivers slightly every time she takes a sip of her soda, probably from the bubbles. 

“Aren’t you gonna get shit from your bitchy friends for sitting with us?" Max is asking Camille, seeming genuinely curious. 

“I’m hot and I’m the captain of the cheer squad. If Stacey wants to try and fuck with me, she has another thing coming. Her tits are, like, a full cup size smaller than mine and she can’t do backsprings down the full length of the football field, so fuck her. Ellie being happy is more important, and honestly, there's enough of that kind of bullshit in real life. We don’t need it here, too.” 

“You’re totally making high school history, right now,” Dustin adds. “You’re, like, the King Arthur of Hawkins, uniting all the different social groups to conquer the Saxons.” 

"Who even are the Saxons in this scenario?" asks Will.

“I dunno, our parents? Other shitty high schools? The future as an existential concept?” 

“God, you are such a nerd,” Camille says fondly. “Guess we’re gonna need a round table.” 

The bell rings. El keeps holding Mike’s hand as she stands up, tugging him with her. 

“Walk me to class?” she whispers. Mike grins. He only has, like, three minutes tops to get to his own class, and he sort of has to pee because he forgot to before lunch, so he’s definitely going to be late, but it’s worth it. 

“C’mon, Henderson, let’s go to English,” Camille is saying, surprisingly cheerful as she hooks her elbow through Dustin’s. Dustin glances over his shoulder, giving them all an ecstatic, incredulous look. Mike gives him a thumbs up, and Dustin mimics the gesture, making a kissy face.

“Sorry they’re so immature,” he says to El as they walk, mostly as a distraction from the fact that people are obviously watching them. Some are gossiping obviously, and Mike has to swallow down a lump of anxiety over what they’re saying about him. Probably that El Hopper is too good for a nerd like him, even if he’s only walking her to class. 

“Camille’s just as bad. And Jenny, oh my God, I never thought she’d…” El trails off, cheeks flaming, and now Mike is thinking about The Kiss again, and how he can’t help but believe with all his heart that it should have been him. 

"It was…I'd rather have it be Jenny than some boy I didn't even know, but I've never had a kiss with, with anyone I really liked," El says, all in a rush like she can sense Mike's thoughts. She's looking up at him, trusting and intent, and Mike keeps his eyes fixed down the hallway.

“I’ve never been kissed at all,” he confesses, his voice coming out husky. “Except, you know, on the cheek yesterday.” 

El is quiet, but when Mike glances down he sees that there’s a small, secret smile playing across the corners of her mouth. It’s funny, but the second they started talking, all the hallway chatter seemed to fade to white noise in the background, leaving them in their own little world. It’s always that way, Mike reflects, everything narrowing down to just them. The vacuum of Mike and El. 

“She’s going to get even worse with you guys. Camille, I mean,” El is saying, stuttering ever so slightly to smooth over the charged moment. “She’s not very good about boundaries unless Jenny reminds her.” 

“Ugh, just like Max. Can you imagine if they become friends?” Mike says, posing his nightmarish vision from earlier. El claps a hand over her mouth, her giggle horrified.

“Oh, God, as much as I want us all to get along, that would be a lot to handle. Well, this is me.”

Mike stops abruptly, realizing that they are in fact in front of a classroom. In spite of the fact that his bladder is outright throbbing, and the hallways are already nearly empty, Mike still wants to hang on to her a little longer. 

“Friday,” El whispers, reaching up on her tiptoes to lean in as she says it, her breath sweet and ticklish against his face, “I want to watch Star Wars if you’re free. Hop works late usually, I’ll have lots of time.”

“I’m definitely free,” Mike says way too quickly, immediately wincing at how much of a loser that makes him sound. Maybe he should have invented some cool, exciting plans to cancel just because he likes her? But El already knows Mike is a dweeb, and she still inexplicably wants to watch Star Wars with him. It’s kind of nice, not having to try and seem cool. 

“Maybe I could go home with you? If you don’t mind?” El suggests. 

“Yes! I mean, but I only have a bike. Two people fit on it, but that’s probably weird."

To Mike’s surprise, El lights up, actually clapping her hands in excitement. 

“I’ve never ridden a bike before! I’d really like that,” she says, so genuine it kind of feels like a punch to the face. She’s the nicest person ever. “Bye,” she whispers. 

“Bye,” Mike says longingly, even as her classroom door clicks shut.

In Social Studies, Bitchy Stacey throws a spitball at him to get his attention. 

“Wheeler,” she whispers, sneering when he turns to glare at her. “So you and Hopper are actually an item, then? The nun and the nerd, cute.” 

She says ‘cute’ like it’s a synonym for ‘disgusting’. If there’s a person other than Troy that Mike hates like fire, it’s her. 

“Don’t call her that,” he snaps, too loudly. 

“Wheeler,” their teacher says warningly, and Mike winces.

“Gotta say, I always thought you and your faggy friend were an item. Guess it must be nice to know you’re not gonna die of AIDs now, huh?” Stacey whispers, a malicious glint in her eyes that makes it clear she hasn’t forgotten the dress. 

“Do you ever stop being a terrible person?” Mike asks, way too loudly this time. “Like, ever, for a second, do you not think ‘what’s the bitchiest most awful thing I can say right now’?” 

And that’s how Mike ends up with detention. He doesn’t care, even if his mom chews him out about it. Camille, Jenny, and El sit with them at lunch every day the rest of the week, and Mike walks El to class. He also gets asked at least once a day, even by people like Lydia Smith who have never once bothered to ask him a polite question without an insult attached, if he’s dating El Hopper. Mike answers ‘no’, even if a part of him wonders if he actually is. Has he somehow managed to stumble into dating his dream girl and is still stupidly oblivious to it? But Mike thinks El will tell him if she wants to make it clear they're officially dating. For now, Mike is happy to have a few stolen moments with her when he walks her to class, even if he's almost always late to his own. He gets to learn a lot about El—she wants to go to school in Chicago, where she thinks her foster sister is, and to maybe study Shakespeare. She used to want to act herself, but she's too shy about public speaking, so she likes to just read plays instead. Romeo and Juliet is her favorite play, Jane Eyre is her favorite novel, and “Time Of My Life” is her favorite song. Even though The Princess Bride is her favorite movie, Dirty Dancing is a very close second, and she has a bit of a crush on Patrick Swayze. Mike is definitely not jealous of a ridiculously handsome, brooding movie star who can also dance. 

On Friday, he finds a note in his locker. El’s handwriting, looping and familiar.

‘Mike, I’m looking forward to watching Star Wars today, and I'll meet you at the bike racks after school. Thank you for walking me to class this week!' 

She’s drawn a little doodle of two people on a bike, and it’s so bad that if Mike didn’t know he was the one steering, he’d be unable to tell who was the boy and who was the girl. He tucks it lovingly into his jean pocket, drawing it out periodically during the day to star at it, imagining El doodling at her desk, maybe twisting a strand of curly hair around her finger or biting her lip in concentration. 

She’s waiting by the bike racks with her hands twisted in front of her when Mike walks out at the end of the day and doesn't spot him right away. For a second, Mike lets himself just watch her like a creep. El’s wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, the most dressed-down Mike's seen her, but her eyes seem even bigger than usual, like maybe she wore some extra makeup. They look so huge they seem a physical impossibility, and in the peach sherbet late afternoon light, they are almost amber. Mike can’t get over how much he likes her.

“Hey!” he says, jogging up to greet her. El beams at him, right cheek dimpling. Mike kind of wants to fit his thumb in that little dip and see how soft the skin there is. “Were you waiting long?” 

“Not long at all,” El reassures him. “And even if I was, it would only be fair. I just realized I was making you late all week. I’m really sorry, that was selfish of me.” 

“I was happy to do it,” Mike says honestly, “and I wasn’t that late. Mrs. Combs is pretty cool about tardies.” 

“I’m glad I didn’t get you in trouble.”

“It would have been worth it,” Mike says automatically. He corrects quickly, burning up, “I mean, you know, it was just nice walking with you. And everything. So you’ve never ridden a bike before?” 

“Nope,” El says, popping the ‘p’. “I thought I’d be more nervous. I guess I trust you not to hurt me.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m an expert bike rider,” Mike says, only half-teasing. “I’ve been riding since I was in Elementary School. Alright, I’m going to get on first, and then you’re just gonna sit there and hang on, okay?” 

“Okay,” El says, nodding. Mike smiles, trying not to show how nervous he is. Amazingly, somehow he’d managed to forget about the fact that El would need to hold him for balance. El’s arms around him and clinging tight, God, he’s going to crash and kill them both. He stumbles a bit when he climbs on, and stays totally still while he waits for El to follow, like he’s trying to avoid startling a reclusive woodland creature. A moment later, he feels her arms wrap around his waist, her knees brushing against him. Mike has no idea how the fuck he’s going to manage to ride a bike like this. 

“Ready?” he asks, his voice doing that husky thing again. 

“Ready,” El says equally breathily, making him shiver. He kicks off before he can start to really panic. El makes a startled sound, sliding in so that she’s pressed up against Mike’s back snugly enough that he can feel way more than he should if he wants to concentrate, even through the sweater. Don’t swerve don’t swerve eyes on the road you pervert, he tells himself as they ride, breathing more heavily than usual. He feels like his senses have totally absorbed El; her vanilla smell everywhere, her breath stirring the hairs at the nape of his neck, the heat of her almost oppressive against his back. One of her hands has slid lower on his stomach, close enough to the waistband of his jeans to be unintentionally dangerously suggestive. 

“Okay?” he asks, because she really is hugging him tightly.

“Uh huh,” El says. “It’s fun.” 

"Want to go down a hill?" Mike asks because if El wants to have fun, he's going to give her the ride of her life. Not like that obviously. 

“Yes!” 

“Alright, ma’am, keep your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside the vehicle. It's going to be a bumpy ride," Mike says in a cheesy announcer voice. El giggles against his neck then shrieks when he pedals harder, keeping his eyes pinned to where Cherry Street dips down sharply. When the hill comes, El glues herself so tightly to him Mike actually has difficulty time breathing. She also laughs, exhilarated and breathless. 

“Oh my God,” she gasps, laughing even louder. Mike laughs too, even though he's gone down this stupid hill every school day for years, just for the joy of being alive with the sky a glowing cornflower blue above him and the prettiest girl he knows behind him. El’s quiet for the rest of the ride, hopping off his bike with ease when they reach his house. 

"I like your flowers," she says, gesturing at the bushes edging the lawn. Since Mike's dad left, his mom has been way into gardening and baking to pass the time. "They're so pretty."

“I’d pick you one,” he says as he wheels his bike around to the garage, “but she might actually kill me for murdering one of her flowers.” 

“No, I don’t want them to die either.” El shakes her head emphatically, trailing her fingers over a bloom. Mike fishes in his backpack for his key, calling out when he gets the door open. 

“Mom, I’m home! I brought a friend over to hang out.” 

Mike knows full well what’s going to happen when his mom catches sight of El, but that still doesn’t keep him from being excruciatingly embarrassed when she bustles out and all but throws herself at El, looking at her with the same hungry glint in her eyes she gets when she has an opportunity to force Mike into a suit. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says, hugging El. El looks a little shell-shocked, but relaxes into it, her small sigh almost lost in his mom's perfectly coifed hair. She draws back, hands on El’s shoulders, and beams. "You must be Mike's young lady. Goodness, you are a pretty one, aren’t you? You didn’t tell me we were having company, honey, or I would’ve made something special for dinner.” 

She looks at Mike reproachfully, and Mike glowers back, wishing he could sink into the carpet. His young lady, fucking hell. El’s cheeks are pink in the centers, but her dimple is coming out when she glances at him, her eyes reassuring. 

“Oh, I’m not picky. My dad says I’ll eat just about anything. I wouldn’t want to put you through any trouble,” she says, and his mom looks like she might actually levitate from ecstasy at her perfect politeness. 

“What’s your name, dear? Mike’s never brought a girl home before, and he absolutely refuses to talk about you. Probably afraid I’ll embarrass him, which of course I am.” 

“I’m Eleanor Hopper, but I like being called El,” El says, taking this all in stride and smiling even more broadly. Mike absolutely wants to die. His mother is never going to let this go. He’ll be eighty years old with half his teeth missing and his mother will probably haunt him from beyond the grave just to say ‘That El Hopper is such a nice girl, and so pretty’. It’ll be the worst. 

“Oh, you’re the Chief’s daughter, aren’t you? Come into the kitchen, I’d feel like a terrible host if I didn’t get you something to eat…” 

"I'm going to get the movie ready," Mike announces loudly before she can embarrass him even more. "We're watching Star Wars."

“That’s nice dear,” his mom says, already leading El into the kitchen to interrogate her and fatten her up. El shoots him an apologetic glance over her shoulder, and Mike forces a smile. He should’ve known this would happen. If only his mom had been at a PTA meeting. Mike catches snippets of the conversation from the kitchen during his trips back and forth to find the movie, extra pillows and blankets, and to make popcorn. 

“Mike’s little sister has ballet class until five, so I’ll have to leave to pick her up, but until then if you need anything, you just ask…oh, a cheerleader! I should’ve guessed, you have the perfect figure for it. I don't know how Mike managed to find you…so nice the Chief gets to be a parent again, and to such a charming girl. It was so tragic, what happened to his daughter…" 

“God, mom, let El breathe a little,” Mike intervenes, because El is starting to look overwhelmed. “The movie’s all set up. I thought we could watch in the basement. We have a T.V. down there, but it’s not as big as the one in the living room. I mean, we can use the living room if you want—“ 

“Mike,” El says gently, cutting off his babbling. “Whatever is best for you and…and Karen.” 

She says it tentatively, and Mike knows his mom gave her the whole "call me Karen" spiel. He should be grateful she didn't ask El to call her mom right off the bat like El is already his future wife. Not that Mike would exactly mind if El is his future wife. For a moment, he goes cold with irrational fear at the idea that El is not permanent to him, that there might be a future where she is not there. When he snaps himself out of it, his mom is looking at him with a different kind of knowing glint in her eye; something thoughtful and almost nostalgic. 

“You kids can watch in the basement. Just keep the door open, please, and no funny business. I’m too young to be a grandmother.” 

“Mom!” Mike has never been this close to committing matricide. El giggles awkwardly, stepping closer to Mike. Thankfully, the microwave timer goes off, and the smell of fresh popcorn fills the kitchen. His mom winks at them, and retreats to the living room, probably to read one of her sappy romance novels.

“I’m sorry about her,” Mike says the second she’s out of earshot, scooping up the popcorn and letting El follow his lead down the basement stairs. El shrugs, her smile shy. 

“I’m glad she doesn’t mind me being here. I don’t really have experience with mothers, I guess.” 

Mike pauses, making El almost crash into him. 

“Sorry,” he says again, “I hope you…I mean, my mom is basically acting like you’re her kid, so that’s a good thing?” 

“Yes,” El says decisively. She’s looking around the basement with a quiet kind of awe, like it’s the greatest place she’s ever seen. Mike can’t even find it in him to be embarrassed by all the nerdy shit laying around—His Dungeons and Dragons game board and pieces, science and fantasy books, action figures from his childhood and a couple of movie posters. Rory the Dinosaur is displayed prominently on top of the T.V., Yoda perched next to him. El looks like she thinks all of it is more than cool. 

“I liked when she hugged me. Hop sometimes does, but he’s not a big hugger. It was nice getting a hug from a mom, even if it wasn’t my mama.” 

“Did you know her at all?” Mike asks before he can stop himself. He cringes, cursing his insensitivity. Just because El confided in him before doesn’t mean he has any right to expect her to want to talk about her past now. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.” 

“I don’t mind,” El says, sitting down next to him. “I trust you.” Mike swallows at the total lack of hesitance with which she says it. 

“I didn’t know her at all,” El explains. Her eyes are fixed on the wall, but she doesn’t look frightened, and if she’s sad it’s not an explosive, raw sadness. If Mike’s poked a wound, it’s a closed one, the blood stirring beneath it slow and dark. “She was on a lot of drugs when she got pregnant. Papa was her doctor, so I was a special case from the kids he fostered when she died. I was always his favorite, if you could call it that. He always said I was lucky I wasn’t born with any defects, she was so addicted when she had me.” 

"I'm sorry you didn't know her," Mike says. "I mean, I wasn't crazy about my dad when he was around, but I guess I'm glad he was there. At the very least, it gave me a clear idea of what not to be when I grew up."

“I think that sounds just as hard,” El says earnestly. “I didn’t ever know my mama enough to miss her. I miss the idea of her, I think. Do you miss your dad?” 

“I miss my sister more,” Mike says honestly. “She was a pain in the ass, but at least she was there for me when I really needed someone, you know? She listened, even if she gave me hard time afterward. My dad never asked me anything about myself once he figured out I wasn't going to, like, suddenly start playing sports. It was like I was invisible, I guess because I wasn't the kind of son he wanted."

“That’s his mistake,” says El softly, “You’re perfect the way you are.” She blushes furiously, and Mike does the same, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye and noticing when she does the same. He can’t have this conversation with her and actually look at her, even if he does want to have it. 

"I remember seeing Nancy around town when I first came here. She was so pretty. Kind of like you," El says. There's a mischievous quirk to her mouth. Mike does look at her this time, blushing even brighter.

“I think you mean ruggedly handsome,” he says. He means it sarcastically, but it comes out strangled and embarrassingly plaintive. 

“Pretty’s better,” El says decisively. “And I think you’re really pretty. So, Star Wars?” 

Mike loves Star Wars more than any other movie on Earth, but the first twenty minutes of it with El are some of the most awkward of his life. He’s painfully conscious of every inch of space between them, both resenting it and terrified of what she’ll think if he tries to lessen it. He’s too nervous to have any popcorn, because what will she think if his fingers brush hers, and it’s ridiculous because Mike has held her fucking hand before, had her wrapped around him like an adorable octopus on the ride home. She kissed his fucking cheek! And here he is feeling like he’s back to square one. To top it off, Mike can’t tell if she likes the movie or not. Sometimes she’ll make a noise, like a little huff of laughter at Threepio’s fussiness, or a little exhale that might be awe when the force theme swells up behind Luke as he watches the binary suns set. 

“Wow,” she says, sounding like she means it. “I got goosebumps, look!” 

She sticks out her arm and Mike feels it automatically. She’s telling the truth, and the tension is cut just like that. 

“That's my second favorite scene of the movie," Mike whispers to her like they're actually in a movie theater instead of his basement.

“What’s your favorite?” 

“You’re just going to have to find out, won’t you?” 

It comes out unintentionally suggestive, and Mike coughs to himself, but El is still smiling. The next time he reaches for the popcorn, she reaches a moment later, brushing his fingers with obvious intent as she grabs a handful. Mike grins to himself like a moron. He can’t fucking believe he’s sitting in his dorky old basement with his crush watching his favorite movie of all time. It’s like he’s stumbled into a really excellent dream, and Mike is still waiting to wake up and realize he’s back in his depressing old life. It’s crazy how El’s changed so much in so little time. 

When Obi Wan dies, El clutches his arm and cries out. 

“He’s not really dead, is he? He can’t be dead, he has to mentor Luke!” 

“’Fraid so, but he’ll be back.” 

“If he’s dead how can he be back?” 

“The Force works in mysterious ways,” Mike says solemnly. El hits him lightly on the shoulder. 

When Luke finally blows up the Death Star, El claps and beams at him. 

“That was really good!” she enthuses, looking so stunningly beautiful as she turns to look at him Mike’s breath gets caught in his throat. “I wasn’t expecting to like it that much, to be perfectly honest. I’ve never really seen any science fiction before. But I really liked it!” 

Mike suddenly flashes back to a conversation at the lunch table the week after he met El. 

“Who do you like better, Luke or Han?” he asks, stupidly nervous about her answer. 

“Leia,” El answers automatically, then bites her lip, sinking into thought. “Hm, well, Han is very handsome, I guess, but I think I’d have to say Luke. He doesn’t even know Leia and he still wants to save her! And he goes back for his family, even after Obi Wan tells him not to. Even after he wanted to get away from his old life. That's really selfless, I think. And he's pretty," she adds, smirking at him. 

Mike is already plotting how he can hold this over Lucas’ head. Apparently looking good in a vest is not the be-all-end-all for girls, and Mike is never going to let Lucas forget it, even if he still kind of thinks most people would pick Han. 

“You like pretty boys, then?” Mike asks, trying for nonchalance and probably coming off like an over-eager puppy. 

“Not always,” El says. “I like Johnny in Dirty Dancing and he’s definitely more like Han, all brooding and dark.”

“I think we own Dirty Dancing, actually, if you wanted to watch it,” Mike offers before he can over-think it. “My mom and Nancy both love it. I mean, if you want to go home, I can probably borrow the car now, but it’s only around six. But you watched a movie I like, and I want to watch one of yours.” 

“Really? You’d watch it with me?” El is looking at him like Mike just offered her an all-expenses-paid cruise in the Caribbean.

"Yeah, of course!" Mike says valiantly, evenly though he strongly suspects that if both his mom and Nancy love a movie, then the odds of Mike being equally enthusiastic are not great. "I'll go and get it, okay? Do you want more popcorn? I think we have some milk duds somewhere, and a shitload of Eggos—“ 

“You have Eggos?” Somehow, El’s expression manages to turn even more rapturous, and Mike is in way, way too deep. 

“Is homestyle okay?” 

“They could be broccoli flavored and I’d love them,” El answers promptly. Mike snorts, reminding himself to stock up on every possible flavor of Eggos at the soonest opportunity. 

His mom is helping Holly with her homework at the kitchen table, and she beams at him when Mike clears his throat. 

“Why didn’t you tell me your girlfriend is so pretty, and such a polite young lady too? I don’t know how you found her, but she’s wonderful.” 

“She’s not my girlfriend, mom,” Mike says wearily. “She’s just a friend.” A kind, smart, beautiful friend who watched Star Wars with him and liked it. God, who is Mike fooling? 

“Mikey has a girlfriend?” Holly asks, juice dribbling out of her mouth.

“She’s not my girlfriend! God, what is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” 

If Dustin were here, this no doubt would have prompted a drawn-out ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition’ skit that has long stopped being funny, but thankfully, his mom's annoyingness does not extend to pop culture references or attempts at stand-up comedy. As it is, she just raises her eyebrows at him and Mike sighs, recognizing a lost battle when he sees one. 

“El wants to watch Dirty Dancing,” he says stoutly. 

“I love Dirty Dancing!” his mom croons predictably. “Patrick Swayze is such a hunk, my goodness, the things he could do—“ 

“Ew, gross Mom!” 

“And it’s a very romantic movie you know, Michael. If she wants to watch it with you, that’s a good sign. But make sure you keep the door open!” 

“Mom!” 

After what seems like forever, Mike makes it back down to the basement with a plate loaded with Eggos and maple syrup, a tall glass of milk for El, and Dirty Dancing tucked under his arm. 

“Oh, Mike, you really didn’t have to,” El says when she sees him, but she’s already making grabby hands for the plate. Mike hands it to her with a little laugh. “I don’t want to eat you out of house and home,” she says semi-reproachfully, but she’s already taking a bite, making a noise that’s close enough to a moan to make Mike think about things he really shouldn’t.

“I doubt that’s even possible,” he says. “You’re too tiny.” 

“Pot, kettle, you noodle,” El says cheerfully.

“So, Dirty Dancing?” 

“Yes, please.” El is smiling around her mouthful of Eggo, looking so totally at peace with the world it kind of takes Mike’s breath away. “I can’t remember the last time I was this happy,” she confesses.

“Me neither,” Mike agrees, but it’s not strictly true. He pretty much feels like this whenever he’s with El. 

As Mike predicted, Dirty Dancing isn’t really the kind of movie he loves, but it’s totally worth it to watch El’s reactions. Her cheeks flush, her eyes shine, and she leans forward like she wishes she could fall into the screen. Mike has to admit, some of the stuff in the movie is actually kind of hot. Unwittingly, he tries to imagine dancing like that with El and misses around seven minutes of the movie trying to clear his head. He'd look ridiculous anyway, being as tall and gangly as he is. El wouldn't, though. El can probably dance. Maybe she's even practiced some of the moves from the movie, like Nancy did when it first came out, mamba-ing down the stairs for dinner every night. 

When the love scene comes, Mike’s general enjoyment turns into acute discomfort, because it is literally impossible to watch Patrick Swayze pull off Jennifer Grey’s (who is, unhelpfully, exactly El’s size) shirt and kiss down the long line of her throat without imagining doing the same to El. It doesn’t help that El is watching the screen with rapturous, single-minded focus, that pretty flush high on her cheeks. Mike can’t stop glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. During the final dance, she starts to sing to herself, probably not even aware that she’s doing it, and Mike is treated to the knowledge that her singing voice is as breathily sweet as her speech. 

“…and I've searched through every open dooor…and I swear it's the truuuuth…” 

Mike almost wants to sing with her, just to, like, share in the magic of the moment or whatever, but he also doesn’t want to draw attention to it in case she becomes self-conscious and stops. He feels the loss when the credits roll and El stops, tucking her knees against her chest and looking at him. 

“That was fun,” she says. Mike just nods, staring at the wall so she can’t see the dopey, lovesick expression that’s probably plastered on his face. El gives a little wistful sigh, and Mike glances over at her, noticing that she’s not looking at him either. There’s that far away look in her eyes again. Mike nudges her with his elbow. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

“Oh, yes!” El says quickly, starting. “Just thinking. Sorry.” 

“What are you thinking about?” 

To Mike’s surprise, her cheeks go rosy, and she bites her lip, something Mike knows by now is a nervous tick. 

“Just…it’s embarrassing, but when he lifts her at the end—I want to do that, someday. It’s dumb, I know,” she says quickly, going even pinker. “I just like being in the air, like I’m flying. That’s why I like doing cheer, and doing it like that with someone I—“ 

She cuts herself off, clearing her throat and Mike is overcome with a steely resolve that means he’s about to offer to do something dumb. 

“It’s not dumb at all. Come on,” he says firmly, pulling El to her feet. She blinks at him, confused. It’s Mike’s turn to be flustered. What is he even doing, he does not have Patrick Swayze’s perfectly chiseled muscles, he’s never fucking done this before, it’s stupid…but Mike still wants to offer. Anything to turn that wistful look El gets into something solid, something joyful. “We’re gonna do that lift,” he announces with confidence he doesn’t feel. 

"Mike, that's sweet, but I'm heavy. I don't want to hurt you," El says, looking even more dubious. Mike scoffs. El probably weighs ninety pounds soaking wet. How hard can lifting her be?

“El,” he says in the same deeply serious tone, “Believe it or not, I’m not a total wimp, and you’re tiny. Not that that’s a bad thing! I want to try it with you. I promise I’ll tell you if I can’t handle it, okay?” 

This is blatantly untrue. Mike thinks that he could be beheaded and if El asked if he was okay he'd still find some way to animate his unattached head to tell her he was fine. El seems to realize this too because she's arching an eyebrow at him.

“This is a dumb idea,” she says, but there’s also something like excitement shining in her eyes. She backs away from him, just like Jennifer Grey did in the movie. “Too bad we don’t have a pool.” 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Mike asks cheerfully, holding out his arms in what he hoped was proper lift-executing position. Both of El’s eyebrows are quirked now.

“I could hurt you!” 

“You won’t,” Mike says, confident this time. He’s reasonably certain he can manage to not get grievously injured. Assuming he doesn't hit his head on anything, or trip over anything, and wow, this really is kind of a stupid idea. But Mike is nothing if not stubborn, and he refuses to admit that this is possibly not a super smart thing to do. It's too late anyway, because El shrugs, and half-runs towards him, looking not-at-all nervous about potentially being lifted high into the air. Which makes sense, since she's a cheerleader. She's on him before Mike can blink, and he’s putting his hands over the deep curve of her waist to lift her. It’s ecstasy for a moment, holding El like this—almost like they’re slow dancing—and then it’s brutal. Mike has no idea how such a tiny human can be so fucking heavy, but he only manages to get her two feet off the ground before he has to put her down again, groaning.

“It’s harder than it looks,” El says kindly. Mike realizes his hands are still on her waist and removes them like they’re on fire, hoping she didn’t notice. 

“How the hell do a bunch of tiny little cheerleaders manage to toss you around like it’s nothing?” he asks, appreciating what a difficult sport cheerleading is for the first time. El’s laugh peals through his basement like a wind-chime.

“Lots of practice.” 

“Okay, well, obviously we have to practice more then. Come on, El, let’s give it one more shot. I’ll put you right down if I don’t think I can do it,” Mike says. El doesn’t protest this time, merely backing up and coming at him again, so light on her feet Mike can’t hear her footfalls. 

This time, he puts aside all apprehension and keeps lifting, stomach swooping in exhilaration even as his arms burn when El is high enough for Mike to see a pale strip of stomach revealed from where her sweater has ruched up under his hands. She really does look like she's flying, for a moment. Then, her center of gravity shifts too far over Mike's head for him to balance himself and he tips, not even having a moment to warn her before he's falling onto his back, El tumbling on top of him. Mike hits the ground with an impact that knocks all the wind from him, thankfully not hitting his head on anything, and El lands on top of him, her weight flush against his pelvis. It feels kind of like having Troy head-butt him in the stomach after a good long running start, and is definitely enough of a shock to distract Mike for maybe five seconds from the fact that El is basically straddling him, her small hands braced on his chest, her cheeks flushed pink and her body absurdly warm. How is it even possible for a person to be so fucking warm? 

“Oh, Mike, I’m sorry,” she gasps, “Oh, gosh, are you…? 

“Fine,” Mike gasps out, his thoughts short-circuiting in a panic that is half El and half lingering pain. “Totally fine, yep. Just peachy.” 

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, squirming against him. “I’ll get off in a second, I just need to catch my breath, I’m sorry. Oh, God, I should have warned you, I’m so, so sorry—“ 

“It was my dumb idea,” Mike says, smiling reassuringly at her and trying not to indicate how much he desperately needs her to stop squirming against his jeans. “Not yours. And I’m totally okay El. Just got the wind knocked out of me.” 

“God,” El says again, catching her breath, and Mike really, really needs her to move. Like, now. The heat of her is ridiculous, even through layers of denim and cotton, and Mike is a teenage boy, he cannot possibly override his body’s reactions to a lapful of pretty, squirming cheerleader before El notices. He’s going to fucking die of embarrassment. Any second El’s going to notice, and realize Mike is a terrible creep pervert, and hate him, and…

“Mike,” El says quizzically, shifting yet again goddamn her. “What’s—“

Her eyes widen, and Mike can see the exact moment the realization kicks in. Her cheeks go the kind of high, furious red that can only be associated with shocked mortification. “Oh, sorry, I’m—“ 

Please shut up please shut up, Mike prays, and El thankfully does, scrambling off of him and offering a hand to pull him up, averting her eyes. 

"Oh my fucking god," Mike mutters, not even knowing what to do other than stand there, humiliated and exposed. El hates him, she hates him, he fucked everything up, and how can he possibly recover from this? "Holy fuck, I'm sorry, El, oh my god—"

“Mike,” El says, in that gentle, cozy way she has, like he’s something fragile to be protected. She’s still blushing, her face impossibly lovely, but she’s meeting his eyes now. “Mike,” she says again, suddenly sounding adult and sure of herself in a way that kind of takes Mike’s breath away. “It’s okay,” she tells him, taking his hands. “I’m seventeen, not seven. I can handle it, okay? You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s, um, it’s totally natural.” 

Mike really, really doesn’t deserve her.

“I’m really sorry, El,” he says sincerely, still embarrassed but maybe not as hopelessly so. El smiles, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t be. I had a really good time, and it was so nice of you to try the lift, even if it didn’t exactly work out.” 

“It was a dumb idea,” Mike mumbles, unable to look directly at her. 

“You couldn’t know that I secretly weigh a ton,” El says, twinkling at him. “It’s the thought that counts. It’s getting late. I should probably get home.” 

Even though Mike should probably be glad of the chance to lick his wounds in solitude, he really, really doesn’t want El to leave. 

"Oh, yeah, of course," he says, forcing his disappointment out of his voice. "I can probably borrow my mom's car to give you a ride if you'd like?"

“I would,” El says. “If you’re sure she won’t mind?” 

She doesn’t, and Mike is faced with the realization that driving alone with El at night is even more terrifyingly intimate than watching a movie, with no screen to distract them both. He turns on the radio just so he won’t have to face the oppressive, tension-filled silence, Belinda Carlisle crooning into the charged space between them. El sings along under her breath, only stopping to give him directions. 

“They say in Heaven, love comes first—just turn right up here—we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth…” 

Mike lets himself listen, lets her voice fill up the space. He’s almost shocked when they actually arrive at Hopper’s house, like he can’t help but think that hushed intimacy might be eternal. El leans over to kiss his cheek again, and Mike doesn’t blush any less this time.

“We should do this again. One of your movies, one of mine. And there are two more Star Wars to watch," she says, her smile somehow quieter than Mike's thundering heartbeat. 

“Yeah,” he says dumbly, fighting to swallow down the usual medley of El-caused emotions. 

“See you Monday,” she promises. Mike watches her skip to her door with a lump in his throat. When he turns the radio up for the drive home, the words sound emptier without El’s soft echo filling in the beats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just rewatched dirty dancing and couldn't stop thinking about how much el would love that movie and you know she'd want to recreate scenes from it with mike because she's an adorable romantic. and he totally would, because he loves her :) i love dirty dancing so much i almost wanna do an even more ridiculously self-indulgent au where mike is his usual awkward nerdy self and he goes to the country club with his family every summer where el is the new lowkey punk bad girl dancing instructor, and she teaches him how to dance and they fall in love and stuff. maybe when i'm done with this story?
> 
> again i love you guys so much and i'm in such an excellent, well-rested mood rn i am 90% certain that the First Kiss™ is gonna be coming next chapter so stay tuned for that!! <3


	8. In Which Mike Almost Waits Too Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **edit: i have a tumblr and i don't know what i'm doing but i really want to follow all you wonderful people so please come say hi to me so i can do that: https://binaryisunrise.tumblr.com/
> 
> i need stranger things content and i'm gonna rely on y'all for that godbless
> 
> wow hey it has been a while friends i've gotten a bit carried away with summer vacation and the friend i'm vacationing with is kind of nosy so i've had very little writing time. because i can only write effectively in a dark cave free of the threat of any human interaction. but i've been working steadily on this, and the next chapter of the dirty dancing au i'm actually writing because i lack self-control will also hopefully be going up. it's called Through Every Open Door and this is my very unsubtle hint to go check it out and also to talk to me in the comments there please because i love you guys tons
> 
> anyways this chapter was another one that didn't, like, spill forth easily and it's weirdly angsty for a chapter that features the first mileven kiss but the kiss is there i promise. it's just that the slow burn has been so slow even el got sick of it
> 
> as always please tell me what you think, and every bit of support this story continues to get means the world to me. you guys say the sweetest things and i love interacting with you !! <3

It’s been two weeks since Dirty Dancing, and El’s been over to Mike’s twice since. They’ve finished all three Star Wars, and El had expressed her tiny disappointment over Luke and Leia being siblings, because she really did like him more than Han and honestly thought Leia would choose Luke after the kiss at the beginning of The Empire Strikes Back. Mike had given her the kind of grin that always makes El think her heart honestly might explode and had said Lucas still didn’t believe any girl could like Luke better. They’d also watched Sixteen Candles and Flashdance, and Mike’s mom had made them dinner once, meatloaf and green beans Mike had picked at and El had wolfed down. It was wonderful. The only problem is that Mike still hasn’t kissed her.

El is starting to think it's all in her head, that it was sheer wishful thinking that had convinced her Mike would lean forward and close the distance during one of those tense, infinite moments of staring into each other’s eyes and wanting. And El used to be sure that the wanting was mutual, was convinced that it wasn't just her because of all the teasing. Surely everyone else felt it too, both her friends and Mike's. Camille isn't the kind of person who lies to make people feel better. But if their connection, cosmic and chemical and hanging between them like a golden thread, really is as strong for Mike it is for her, then why hasn’t he done anything about it? 

El knows that she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself, of course. It would be so easy. It’s just that…that she’s been initiating almost all their contact, always the one to hold his hand and kiss his cheek and smile at him with a softness that surely stitches her heart right onto her sleeve, and what if Mike is just going along with it because he thinks he has to, because he’s afraid of hurting her feelings? What if she tries to kiss him and he rejects her? Just thinking about that hypothetical makes El’s whole body go clammy with awful, crushing humiliation. If she happens to think about it when she’s trying to fall asleep, it jolts her into full consciousness and she’ll toss and turn for hours trying to wash the taste of it out of her mouth. If she imagines it in class, she usually loses focus for the rest of the day, sitting at her desk in the paralyzed certainty that everyone knows. She can't make that final, crucial move. It would kill her if Mike turned her down. She'd rather drift along and cling to the illusion that he really does like her, that he's just as shy as she is than have to face the awful truth that it's all been in her head. So El spends the next two weeks in a limbo of hoping and trying not to hope because she's certain she's going to get her heart broken and does all the usual things she does with Mike as she tries not to look at his every word and motion as a sign of something, good or bad. It’s awful. It feels interminable.

On Monday, the week of the next big game, Camille jokes about Mike waiting to give her a promise ring before he makes a move, and Mike glares and tells her to shut up. Not for the first time, El can’t tell if he’s angry on her behalf or if he’s angry because he hates the idea of being with her, but the doubt feels especially strong, settling within her like something bad she ate, something her body can’t wait to expel messily. She stands abruptly, hands shaking slightly as she picks up her tray.

"El?" Mike asks, but El can't look at him, can't deal with all the stupid longing his face stirs in her.

“Bathroom, sorry,” she mumbles, and all but sprints away from the table, unsure if she’s hoping Mike will follow her or for the opposite.

He doesn't follow her. After she disposes of the tray, El goes to the bathroom, closes the toilet lid in the largest stall and sits there for what feels like a small eternity, shaking with nerves for the game on Friday and fear of what Mike really thinks of her until cold sweat creeps at the edges of her hairline, a gross, prickling feeling. Maybe becoming so afraid again is regressing somehow, but El feels strangely resigned to it. Her confidence with Mike the past two weeks could never last forever, especially when it seems like it’s not getting her anywhere. The Old El slips around her like a security blanket, cozy but infantilizing. It’s so easy to be that version of herself: meek and quiet, only ever attracting attention from people like Troy who see her as a wounded gazelle and themselves as the lions. It’s so much easier to not speak, to not take risks. How much shame is there in wanting to go back, to give up this dumb idea that she can go after what she wants and come out happier for it?

When she finally leaves the bathroom, planning on wandering out to the field before the bell rings if she has time, she runs right into a boy who is not Mike Wheeler.

“Hey, whoa there,” Nate Bass says good-naturedly, steadying her when she lurches with firm hands on her shoulders. His touch doesn’t feel bad, necessarily, and doesn't make her flinch the way Troy's did. El keeps her eyes averted, sure that her feelings are writ messily all over her face.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Nate gives a small, carefree laugh, and El glances up, dazzled by the flash of his perfectly white, even teeth. 

“It’s okay,” he says sincerely. “No harm, no foul. Hey, are you all right? You look a bit pale.” 

El wraps her arms around herself on instinct, her tongue heavy and unwieldy in her mouth. 

“I’m alright,” she says, searching for an excuse that doesn’t involve Mike Wheeler. “I’m just, just—“

"I bet you're nervous about the game, huh?" Nate supplies. El nods gratefully. His smile is exceedingly gentle, and it doesn’t melt her into a puddle of butterflies the way Mike’s does, but it…it’s nice to look at. “Yeah, I feel that. I always barf before a big game myself, so you can’t be handling it worse than me.”

El starts, trying to remember if Nate is on the football team. No, it's not football, it's basketball. He is very tall. Mike is tall too, and just like that El’s thinking about Mike again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“If it helps, I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about,” Nate is saying. “I’ve seen you at every game—not that I was, you know, watching only you, that would be creepy—but it's hard not to watch you because you're the best. When you're in the air you look like you were born with wings." 

In spite of herself, El blushes. It’s a very nice thing to say. She’s never spoken much to Nate, except for a bit of small talk the few times they’ve walked to math together, but she hadn’t taken him for a poet. Apparently, he hadn’t taken himself for one either, because his cheeks are bit pink too.

“That’s really nice of you,” she says honestly. “I feel a bit better.”

"Good! I'm glad I helped." Nate laughs a little again and runs a hand through his golden curls. "Hey, uh, actually, I've been wanting to ask you something for a while."

“Oh?" El prompts, though her stomach is fluttering with nerves. Not the Mike kind of nerves, not the Troy kind of nerves—though in that case, ‘nerves' was a synonym for ‘utter terror'—just anxiety at the unknown, from a person she's not really spoken to before. Nate struggles for a moment, looking pretty uncomfortable himself.

"I thought maybe we could go out sometime?" he says, almost like he's asking himself whether he wants to as much as he's asking her. "Just something casual like, like Benny's, or a movie, maybe. I mean obviously you don't have to say yes. In fact, you could forget I asked and…"

El takes a deep breath, totally overwhelmed. This type of backtracking, nervous rambling is painfully familiar. He sounds just like Mike, if Mike were to ever actually ask her out. Something painful lodges in El’s throat as her mind whirls, trying to think of what to answer. The Mikeness of it makes her want to say yes. In fact, everything about Mike and the past two weeks makes her want to say yes because a small, secret part of El is angry. She’s angry that she’s pushed herself so far and gotten nothing out of it, she’s angry at Mike for not telling her what he wants from her, and she’s angry that without Mike it’s already so easy for her to slip back into being the kind of girl who says no on principle because she is afraid. She can see herself now, opening her mouth to give the automatic answer, the answer she’s not sure if she actually wants to give: _No, no, I’m very sorry,_ in that high, wounded _I really must be going_ voice she uses so frequently, the voice of a young girl horribly embarrassed at her first party. 

She twists her hands, not knowing what to say. Nate really is good looking. He’s more classically handsome than Mike, certainly. She can see that objectively, observing his Greek nose and light brow, his huge sea-green eyes, full lips, and high, lovely cheekbones. Everything about him looks like it really belongs on some Renaissance statue, like he stole his features from a Botticelli painting. He’s the exact kind of boy people expect her to have a crush on, and he’s actually nice, and there’s really no reason for El to say no. 

“Sure,” she says, feeling a bit sick as she says it. “Would you like to go to Benny’s after school this Wednesday?” 

“Yeah,” Nate says, nodding a few times too many. He looks a bit pale himself, sweat beading along the elegant curve of his upper lip. “Uh, sure, that would be great. Definitely great. I mean, you’re pretty and nice and, and, it will be fun. It will be great. I’ll see you then?” 

He sounds like he’s trying to talk himself into it as much as she is internally, and for some reason it makes El’s sudden nausea lessen a bit. 

“Yes,” she says, formally. “After school Wednesday.” 

“I’ll give you a ride,” Nate says. “If you want. Um, I’ll see you then?” 

He leaves first, and El stares after him, feeling wrong-footed and misplaced, like she's been zippered into a skin that doesn’t belong to her. She also thinks she wants to cry. 

She spends the rest of lunch in the bathroom that day and Tuesday and tries not to think about how Mike will react when he finds out.

…………………………………………………

When Mike hears the gossip, he does something he's kept himself from doing for years and years. He fakes being sick, goes home, and cries harder than he can remember crying since he found out his parents were getting divorced. His mom tries to talk to him, and Mike can't even find the words to describe how black he feels, to explain what it's like to have been so close to something he wanted desperately only for it to slip through his fingers like water, or the aftermath of a good dream. He feels like Icarus, melted and crippled after flying too close to the sun. 

He thinks about calling Will, or one of the other party members, even Max. In the end, he leafs through the phonebook and dials Camille’s number.

………………………………………………

Camille is painting her nails when the phone rings downstairs. She ignores it, obviously, because almost all the calls that come to the house are her parents’ business contacts, or possibly the lover her mother picked up in Paris they’re all pretending doesn’t exist. It’s not until her mother calls “Cammie, honey, it’s for you,” that she realizes it might be from Dustin. She nearly runs down the stairs, not even caring that she’s probably messing up her toes, and grabs the phone like it’s a bomb about to detonate, her voice taking on a breathy, nervous quality that makes her sound like some loser twelve-year-old talking to her kindergarten boyfriend for the first time since the second grade. God, he brings out the lame-ass in her and she doesn’t even care. 

"Yeah, who is it?" she tries again in her perfected Don't-Fuck-With-Me voice and ignores how her heart is pounding.

“Camille.” 

And just like that, all that delicious anticipation deflates, because it’s not Dustin stuttering and trying not to let on how much he likes her as Camille pulls every trick in the book to coax it out of him. It’s fucking Wheeler, who sounds flat and kind of, well, kind of wrecked, to be perfectly honest, though why is anyone's guess…but then Camille knows why, doesn't she? It's Ellie and Nate Bass, obviously. She'd taken Ellie home with her on Tuesday when Ellie had asked and listened to her ramble on and on trying to justify saying yes to Nate until Camille had finally put her out of her misery. 

“Ellie,” she’d said, “I know you. I know how hard it’s been for you, putting yourself out there, and I know that even though you’re super hot and nice and a literal fucking angel, you can’t help but doubt yourself. I thought Wheeler would have made a move by now too. So if this is what it takes for him to get his scrawny ass into gear and, like, ravish you, then what’s the fucking problem?” 

“I feel like…like I’m being unfaithful, or something,” Ellie had said quietly, looking at her hands and radiating so much misery Camille had kind of wanted to wrap her up in a cocoon of blankets and spoon-feed her hot cocoa with too many marshmallows until she smiled again. Instead, she rolled her eyes, because dealing with feelings is not her thing, okay?

“Please. Wheeler is being an idiot and not staking his claim, and you’re not doing anything wrong. He obviously needs a reminder that you don’t fucking belong to him, and that he can’t just keep you hanging around forever. Now, go on your date with Nate, have a nice time, and if it clicks, you can forget all about Wheeler. And if it doesn’t, I’ll have a word with him.” 

And then she’d had to promise she wouldn’t threaten Wheeler with grievous bodily harm or do anything else to coerce him into ravishing her best friend like he so obviously wants to, but given how fucked up about the whole thing Wheeler sounds right now just saying Camille’s name, she’s got a strong idea he’s not going to need much convincing to get straight to the ravishing. With, like, scented candles and rose petals and tearful declarations of love obviously. 

“Wait a minute,” she says, equally flat, then muffles the phone with her palm. “Mommy, I’m going to talk to Jenny in my room, okay?” 

"Sure, dumpling," her mother says distractedly, and Camille takes the phone upstairs, settling herself onto her big fluffy bed and resigning herself to spending her evening as Mike Wheeler's reluctant therapist.

“Right, Wheeler, I wanna keep this brief, because I have better things to do with my time than listen to you whine about your pitiful excuse for a love life. I assume this is about Ellie going out with Nate Bass.”

“I just, uh…" She hears a strangled choking noise over the phone and rolls her eyes again. Such drama. "Sorry, I just…I really thought we had something? I thought, I mean, I know what you said about being whatever she needs, and I want to keep being her friend regardless, but I thought maybe she actually like me too. But Nate is way more in her league and, and you know what, never mind. I don’t even know why I’m calling you—“

“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Camille hisses. She has, indeed, predicted the reason for this extremely unwanted phone call, but now that he’s on the line, she supposes she has no choice but to deal with him for Ellie’s sake. God knows she’ll probably never forgive herself if she lets Mike slip through her best friend’s fingers. “God, boys are fucking useless. Look, Wheeler, I’m gonna spell it out for you and if you tell anyone I said any of this, most of all Ellie, I will, like, skin and castrate you, got it?” 

“Crystal clear,” Mike says, not even saying it ironically, which really tells Camille all she needs to know about how desperate he is right now.

“Right,” she begins, settling onto her duvet and hoping she hasn’t fucked up her toes. “Look, I’ve talked to Ellie about this. You’re the one she has a crush on. No, no, don’t interrupt. I’m fucking serious. She’s crushing on you hard. The thing is that she’s, like, stupidly insecure, and doesn’t realize what a fucking catch she is. So she’s been trying her darndest to flirt her cute little ass off with you, even though it’s really fucking hard for her because she’s a shy and precious flower, and you’ve just been kind of not responding in an obvious way? Like, what the fuck are you waiting for? Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is for Ellie to put herself out there, and how much she must like you to be doing everything she’s doing?” 

Camille is kind of shouting now, and she forces herself to quiet down only because she doesn’t want to worry her parents. Wheeler obviously needs to be shouted at. Even now, he’s scoffing in disbelief, and Camille’s eyes really are going to get stuck staring into the back of her skull from how often she’s rolling them. Loser dweebs are obviously bad for her health.

“She’s just being nice. I mean, she’s nice to everyone, and I don’t want to, to force myself on her, especially with her history—“

“She told you about her history?” Camille interrupts incredulously. Ellie doesn’t talk about her childhood with anyone, even her best friends. All Camille knows is that bad shit happened to her, and that sometimes she freaks out because of it, and that she needs to be reminded a lot that she has people who love and support her. “Wheeler, she hasn’t even told Jenny and me about her life in foster care. Seriously, if she told you that—and what is this bullshit about her just being nice? Do you see her going around holding hands with Jenny and me, kissing us on the cheek?” 

“Well, apparently,” Mike mutters petulantly, and Camille can see him in her mind’s eye being all weird and jealous about the offhand mention of that one kiss. 

“Oh, shut up, you know that didn’t count. She’s not exactly kissing Dust—Henderson on the cheek either,” _and thank fucking god,_ she adds internally, kind of seething herself a bit just imagining it, "or Sinclair or Mayfield or Byers. She likes you. And anyway, she's flat-out talked about her crush on you with me, and if you ever tell her I told you about this, I really will kill you. She has a crush on you. She's been practically throwing herself at you for weeks, and what have you done about it? Nothing, except just kind of take it.”

"Well, obviously she doesn't like me that much if she's already going out with Nate Bass—"

“Do not interrupt me. Look, so Ellie's been doing everything in her power to let her know you like her, and you've been doing very little to clearly communicate that back to her, and she has a lot of self-esteem issues and has probably managed to convince herself that she's not good enough for you, or that you’re just putting up with her. I know this for a fact. Nate asked her out on Monday, and she honestly had convinced herself that you were never going to make a move on her, and she said yes and has been feeling horribly guilty about it ever since, even though she has no fucking reason to be.” 

Silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Mike speaks, sounding more than a little horrified. 

"God, I fucked up. She's just so—she's beautiful and kind and I love spending time with her. I never managed to convince myself she even could like me, because she's so out of my league, and now I've, I've fucked it all up and I can’t fix it.” 

"Oh, spare me the self-pity," Camille snaps. "You've made this mess and you can damn well clean it up. Now, if Ellie decides she likes Nate now, you're gonna be her good friend and not give her a hard time about it. And if it doesn’t work out, you’re going to let her know how much you like her.”

“I can’t tell her,” Mike says miserably, and for the first time Camille really does feel a surge of pity towards him. He’s probably never even been kissed before, is the textbook definition of Virgin Nerd, and no fucking wonder it’s hard for him to go after his dream girl with the same confidence a member of the football team might. “I want to, I want to so badly but…but if she says she doesn’t like me too, I don’t think I can handle it. I want to keep being her friend no matter what, but it will be so much easier if we both pretend she doesn’t want to reject me.”

“She likes you,” Camille says calmly. “She likes you so fucking much Wheeler. She’s done her part, now you’ve got to do yours and show her already. If you can’t tell her, give her some grand romantic gesture. Ellie’s a total romantic. Fill her locker with flowers, bake her cupcakes, ask if you can kiss her and then do it in front of the whole school. Make her feel special. Hurry boy, she’s waiting there for you.” 

“Did you quote ‘Africa’ by Toto as love advice?” Mike asks, sounding kind of stunned. Camille smirks so hard she’s sure he can hear it through the receiver. 

“Yes, I did. Because I, unlike you, am cultured in stuff other than Star Wars, in addition to being extremely hot and cool. So, do you realize what you have to do to make sure you don’t lose your future wife?” 

She only means it half-sarcastically. She can totally see Ellie and Mike getting married, Ellie in some Dirty Dancing-inspired vintage dress and Mike in an ill-fitting tux, and then going on to have enough babies to populate half of Manhattan. They're so obviously made for each other it's sickening.

“Yeah,” Mike sighs. “Yeah, I guess I do. Um, thanks, by the way. For all of this.” 

“I’m not doing it for you, Wheeler,” Camille says with yet another eye-roll. “I’m doing it for her. Don’t break her heart.” 

…………………………………………………………………

Wednesday afternoon El finds herself sitting snugly in a booth at Benny’s across from Nate, trying to put her finger on why this feels so wrong. It’s not that they haven’t found anything to talk about. They both play sports, Nate is bright, even if he isn't Mike-level super smart, he's seen some movies she likes, and he’s undeniably attractive. Gorgeous, even. It’s just that El feels like she’s forcing herself, like she can’t get a single word to come out naturally. Her smiles stretch strangely across her face, she can't figure out what to do with her hands, and she keeps taking sips of her strawberry shake so she won't have to come up with what to say next. It shouldn't be so hard. He's the kind of boy every girl dreams of having as a first boyfriend, and he’s been a total gentleman to her, and even seems nervous himself, though El has been in high school long enough to know that guys that look like him usually go through girls like a box of Kleenex.

So why is the idea of having to do this again and again and again until they can call themselves boyfriend and girlfriend filling her with the kind of dread that makes her want to bury her head under the covers of her bed and never come out again? El isn’t sure if she’s angrier at herself or at Mike for only wanting those things with him. He doesn’t want them with her, and there’s nothing she can do about it, but it’s awfully unfair that he’s spoiled her for having them with anyone else.

It’s not until Nate starts talking about his art class that El starts to realize she’s not the only one forcing herself into a shoe that doesn’t fit.

“Art is my favorite class,” he answers when she asks, his eyes suddenly sparkling. “I’m no good at drawing myself, but Will Byers—I’m pretty sure you guys are friends—is just amazing, like, uh, like Michelangelo or something. He does these fantasy scenes and they make you feel like you’re in another world, man. I always want to say something to him about how awesome they are, but I never know what to say.” 

"If you tell him what you just told me, it would make him really happy," El says and feels a spark of genuine joy settling within her when she realizes that Will has, somewhere along the way, become one of her close friends. She hasn’t just gotten an extended, unresolved flirtation with Mike out of the past month. She’s gotten new people who care about her and whom she cares about in turn, and that actually feels pretty amazing. It's easy to forget it when Mike's there since his presence seems to soak up everything she has to give, but the rest of them are her friends too. 

“You really think so? I’ve never really spoken to him before. His friend Mike can be kind of touchy.” 

"Not with me," El says quietly, and crumples in on herself a little with dull pain. Mike is always so kind to her, gentle and understanding, and he’s the only one who really knows her, even more than Camille and Jenny. She wants him so badly it aches like a growing wound, gaping wider and wider and bleeding out more by the minute. 

"Yeah, you guys are pretty close, aren't you?" Nate says, and it strikes El as a bit odd that he seems so cheerful about it. Shouldn’t he be annoyed if he really does like her? Not that El wants anyone fighting over her (she’s had quite enough of that with Troy Harrington, thank you very much), but the thought of Mike being ‘pretty close’ with a girl who isn’t her makes El’s jaw clench immediately, a wave of jealousy sweeping over her so intensely the bottom seems to drop out of her stomach. 

“You know, I kind of figured you guys were dating before you said yes,” Nate says, and there’s still nothing but good-natured interest there, no spark of what El knows she would feel if Mike were to like another girl. “I guess I assumed you and Mike and Will and Jenny had paired off.” 

El’s eyebrows raise automatically.

“Will and Jenny?” she asks, puzzled. Honestly, if all the dumb stereotypes about boys were true, she’d expect Nate to want to talk about sports some more instead of who’s dating who. But who is she to judge Nate for having different interests? “They’re not dating. Jenny used to have a crush on him is all.” 

“Oh,” Nate says, and shoves a handful of fries into his mouth so suddenly El jumps a little at the movement. He chews furiously for a minute, and there’s a trace of a pretty flush washed across his perfect cheekbones. It reminds El of Mike, and she can feel herself soften towards him at the association. Mike always blushes so easily. _Especially around you,_ a small, wickedly optimistic voice in the back of her head whispers, and El shoves it aside. She doesn’t need to cling to false hope. 

"I just, you know, saw him and Jenny sitting together at lunch and talking and figured he'd finally given in to her, y’know?” Nate continues, a little too quickly to be casual. 

El frowns, shaking her head. She’s trying to work out why Nate seems so interested in this, and she thinks there’s something obvious she’s just missing, something she could piece together with a little more information. Maybe it’s Jenny? Maybe he’d thought Jenny and Will were dating and settled for El as second best? El knows she should probably be hurt at not being his first choice, but it's actually kind of a relief.

“You know, Nate,” she starts carefully, “if you really like Jenny, I don’t mind if you want to ask her out instead of me, now that you know she’s not dating Will. My feelings won’t be hurt.” 

Nate is definitely blushing now, and he’s not looking at her, his eyes peeled on a small tear in the vinyl booth cushioning next to El’s left shoulder where a small spill of yellowed stuffing is exposed. 

"I'm not interested in Jenny," he says slowly, and El gets the sudden sense that there's something he's trying to get her to understand, something she's still missing. It reminds her of when she first started school, when she still had to put sentences together in her head before she said them aloud and the world had been an endless puzzle of social cues that felt more like cruel inside jokes, almost within her reach but refusing to neatly fit together. 

“I mean, you’re totally the kind of girl I sh—I like. You always seemed so nice and down to earth, and you’re really pretty, and you’re the best cheerleader on the squad, everyone knows that. What guy wouldn’t like you?” Nate’s forced laugh falls with a heavy, dead weight; a scramble of hidden meaning that is already starting to congeal between them like a T.V. dinner left out too long. 

"Um, thank you," she says, hoping it is the right response. "I think you're very nice too, and handsome," she assures him, trying to shake off the feeling of stumbling for a light switch in the dark. "Everyone knows that," she adds, repeating his words.

The silence between them is nothing like the silences between her and Mike. It is charged with something, but it is not a something that tickles El with tangible force, like the very molecules in the air are agitating against her with the intent of convincing her to do something. It does not feel like a precipice. It hangs in the air like a raincloud. 

“So, um,” Nate finally says. There is the gleam of sweat along his upper lip. His curly hair is liquid gold in the sunshine cast through the window, the color of a perfectly cooked French fry. “You and Will are friends,” he says again, and it occurs to El suddenly that maybe he is feeling around in the dark too, shuffling his feet along and trying to decide if the dark shapes he sees are objects he might trip over or the shadows they cast.

“Yes,” El answers. “He’s Mike’s best friend. He’s very nice.” 

“Is he—“ Nate stops, biting his bottom lip white. “Uh, the rumors about him, do you—are they true?” 

El’s eyes narrow. She hadn’t taken Nate for a homophobe, and anger instantly overwhelms her confusion. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she says coldly. Nate just chews his lip harder, his face flaming. 

“I know it’s not, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just, well…I really like his art,” he finally blurts out, and El gets it. 

She doesn't exactly know how to proceed, but it's a relief to understand. For the first time, she thinks she might be seeing Nate as he actually is, as someone like her, the golden-boy exterior hiding someone who is terrified of not living up to expectations, who is struggling to piece together enough self-worth to be happy, and wondering if happiness is even worth the sacrifices he will have to make.

“Why did you ask me out?” she asks, hoping the question comes across kindly. On impulse, she reaches across the table to where Nate’s hand is worrying a napkin into pulp and lays hers across his. Nate finally meets her eyes, and he looks terrified, but El is familiar enough with terror to find relief lurking under the tide of it, waiting to be drawn to the surface. He answers more easily than she might have expected.

“Because you’re the kind of girl everyone thinks I should date,” he says bluntly. “I thought…you know, I thought I wasn't sure, and you seemed like you might—understand if it turned out I was. And when you started hanging out with Will's friends, I thought I might as well give it a shot."

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think that nothing would make Will happier than knowing that you like his art,” El says, squeezing his hand a little. “I got a few things cleared up for myself, too, so I’m glad we did this. And if you ever need a friend, I’m here.” 

“I kind of thought you would be,” Nate says, his smile dimpling and positively radiant and yeah, Will’s going to be very happy if Nate ever does get the courage to talk to him in art class. “I dunno, it’s just something about you. You just seem like the kind of person who gets other people, I guess. Can I ask what you got cleared up, to even out this whole confession thing?” 

El sighs. She might as well say it out loud.  
"I realized that there's one person I want right now and that it's not fair for me to lead anyone else on, I guess. I'm just going to have to wait and hope he feels the same."

“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t,” Nate says with total conviction. El smiles back and lets herself believe him.

……………………………………

Friday creeps up on him like a slasher in a horror movie, and Mike goes through every day anticipating the feeling of being stabbed. El sits with them at lunch again Thursday and takes her usual seat next to him, and no one talks about her date with Nate Bass. She chatters to Camille and Jenny about the upcoming game, and occasionally gives Mike the kind of soft smile that almost makes him forget that she is on the cusp of having a gorgeous boyfriend who isn’t him, and Mike curses himself more for being an idiot with every passing hour. He knows, deep down, that Camille wasn’t lying, and it would be ridiculously out of character for her to lie to spare his loser nerd feelings anyway, and now Mike is going to have to live with the knowledge that he had El and let her slip through his fingers. He’s considered the Grand Romantic Gesture strategy, and has halfway convinced himself that if things don’t work out with Nate, he’ll stuff her locker with roses or red velvet cupcakes or hire a band to serenade her, but Mike has mostly convinced himself that he blew it and there’s nothing to do at this point but pine. After all, that’s what guys like him are supposed to do with girls like El. Yearn silently, and hope no one laughs in their face when the crush is inevitably uncovered. All those quiet, charged moments in his basement, his horrifically inconvenient boner and El’s gentle understanding about it, the walks to class, every electric brush of her skin against his—all of it’s starting to feel like a movie Mike watched long ago, something he’d daydreamed about that he could never get a solid grasp on. 

He doesn’t really tell anyone about what’s changed. He’s not even sure if it’s obvious from the outside, if he’s wearing heartbreak like an inside-out shirt. Other than her conspicuous absence from their lunch table, and some knowing looks from the party, no one has done anything to indicate that things are different. Mike hopes they don’t know. It’s much easier to keep being El’s friend when everyone pretends they weren’t on the cusp of being something more. When Will calls him Thursday night, Mike sighs in resignation, certain that this is finally the moment of confrontation and confession. At least it will be with Will, who’s always understood Mike the best, and never says too much. 

Instead of quietly probing, though, Will’s voice crackles through the phone with unmistakable excitement, and Mike stands up a little bit straighter and carries the phone into the basement. 

“You’ll never believe what just happened,” Will says in a rush. Mike frowns, wondering if this is still going to come down to El. Maybe he somehow overheard her and Nate Bass confessing their undying love to one another. 

“What happened?” he prompts, holding his breath. 

“Nate Bass just called me,” Will says, and Mike’s usual wave of self-pity and total depression at the name briefly struggle with confusion over what the fuck Nate Bass was doing calling Will before the confusion wins out. 

“Uh, why?” he finally asks, perhaps a little more bitchily than usual, but whatever. Mike’s been handling the torture pretty gracefully so far, he’s entitled to some pissiness. "Is it about El?" he adds, because he apparently has a masochistic streak a mile wide.

“Uh, kind of, but not in the way you think? Look, Mike, I think we all had it really wrong about Nate and El. I mean, she likes you, we all knew that, but I think her and Nate was really just El trying to move on from you because she managed to convince herself you didn’t like her.” 

Mike sighs, stretching out on the couch. It seems like everyone is able to read El Hopper’s mind except him, and he almost wishes someone would give contradictory advice, just so he could have a chance to keep being unsure. And it’s not just that Mike is a masochist who loves to torture himself with her proximity while knowing he can’t really have her, it’s that there’s real magic in being suspended in the tentative, fumbling motions of a first crush, and the idea of ruining that because everyone and their maiden aunt misjudged El’s feelings might break Mike’s heart. Of course he also, with every fucking part of his heart and soul, wants to know what it’s like to really be with her. He can’t stop the feeling that this catalyst between them is inevitable—like he’s in one of those dreams where he’s standing in the way of something fast and dangerous, knowing that there is nothing keeping him from running—that he should run—and still being unable to unfreeze his legs and move. 

“Yeah, I guess I really fucked this one up,” he says, and laughs a laugh so dry it crackles with the odd static of the moment before a natural disaster, of a thousand blades of dying grass catching fire at once. “Believe me, everyone’s told me.”

“Well, maybe what I have to tell you will finally convince you,” Will says stubbornly, and doesn’t give Mike the chance to interrupt. “Look, Mike, Nate called me, and I asked him if he wanted to know something about El, though god knows why he’d call me instead of Jenny or Camille or even you, and he says—he says he’s been meaning to tell me since the start of the school year that he thinks my art is brilliant and that I could be like, uh, I think it was John William Waterhouse? Because I do such detailed fantasy scenes.”

“Nate Bass knows who John William Waterhouse is?” Mike asks, and cringes when he realizes that it’s this kind of impulse that made Camille hate him for weeks almost immediately. “Not that that’s super weird, or anything. He just doesn’t seem like the art type.” 

“I know,” says Will. Mike can practically hear him bite his lip over the phone. “And I told him thanks obviously, like really, really huge thanks. I mean, Nate’s just—he belongs in an Old Spice ad, not in art class at Hawkins High, y’know? And Nate says that El told him to tell me, and that I would understand. I said I didn’t really know that sincere, nice compliments were hard to understand, and Nate suddenly says out of the blue that he asked El out because he thought maybe he could convince himself to like her if they spent enough time together.”

Mike sees red and sits up so fast his head swims. “Convince himself to like her? Why the fuck would he need to convince himself? She’s perfect. She’s just as perfect as he is, and she’s beautiful on the inside or whatever too. She deserves better than someone who has to convince himself to like her and she deserves way fucking better than being led on.” 

"No, Mike," Will says softly, "You aren't getting it. So I asked him why he'd asked her out if he didn't already like her, and he tells me his dad was giving him a hard time about not having a girlfriend and El seemed like the kind of girl he could stand to date if he had to. And, I, um, I took a big risk and mentioned thinking in Sophomore year that maybe I’d like kissing Jennifer Hayes if I just tried it and ended up, um, not.” 

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, thoughts of El totally flee Mike’s head. He sits up straighter still. 

“Wow,” he finally settles for saying. “That’s—that’s great, Will. I’m really…” He wants to say _proud of you,_ but Will can get funny about praise like that, afraid it’s condescension, and Mike usually tries to show it with actions instead. “What did Nate say?” 

“Oh, um, first I asked him if he was going to go out with El again, and he said he didn’t think so, like, immediately. He also mentioned that she’d said she had someone else in mind, and that she couldn’t really make herself like anyone else, or something like that.” Mike is reminded of why Will is his best friend when this reveal is disclosed without any teasing, suggestive remarks, or anything else to indicate Mike is the someone El has in mind. Will just says it like he’s said everything else in this conversation, a little nervous, but mostly with that casual, confessional tone they only ever really get with each other. 

“And he asked me if he could ever see some more of my drawings, and also if I liked Lord of the Rings at all because he got some Tolkien vibes from the some of the stuff I draw for our characters. And I don’t know what came over me, but I told him that I definitely did and that he actually reminded me of Glorfindel. So now I guess we’re going to hang out at his house this weekend. Isn’t that the craziest thing to ever happen? I can’t believe this is actually my life.” 

Mike is smiling now, and not just because it seems like El and Nate aren’t going to start dating after all. He’s been with Will through a lot of hard shit—his dad leaving, being the first person he came out to after his mom, vicious rumors at school that ended in violence from people like Troy way fucking more than they should have, and the whole Jenny debacle. He feels a bit weak with how easily Will is confiding in him, that he’s telling him this first out of any of the party even though Mike’s kind of been a self-absorbed and self-pitying dickhole the past week. It makes Mike feel young and trusted with something fragile, something he wants to keep cupped in his hands so he can feel that it is still whole and un-fractured. He also feels about ten feet tall. 

It’s about fucking time Will has something good happen to him. He deserves it more than anyone else Mike knows. 

“God, Will, that’s so great. I mean, you know I have to tell you to be careful, in every sense—“ 

“God, Mike!” Will shouts into the receiver, half horrified and half laughing. 

“—but I’m so happy for you. Nate’s not a bad sort—“ 

“Especially now that he’s not dating El,” Will says matter-of-factly. “Mike. You know what you have to do, right?” 

For a second, force of habit almost drives Mike to deny it, but he can’t this time. He really can’t. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know what to do.” 

All through the game Friday night, Mike feels like he’s going to throw up from nerves. He’s sweating viciously, even though winter is well on the way and the wind is unforgiving and biting, and he can’t stop bouncing his left knee, unsure if it’s something his subconscious is doing to lessen his nerves or if he’s actually shaking in fear. Mike pretends it’s the former and watches El, light on her feet as if the wind’s only purpose is to carry her. Everyone else on the field is so washed out under the harsh stadium lights even their shadows seem unsure of what shape to take, but El alone seems to come alive under the unforgiving wash of it, her skin glowing the luminous color of clean sea foam. Mike still doesn't know what exactly it is he plans to do when the game is over and is even less sure if he'll even have the courage to do it, whatever it ends up being. He's not even sure if he has the strength to stand up and make it down to the field the way he feels right now. He'd even tried to buy a pack of cigarettes on the way to the game to calm his nerves, only to get carded immediately. He wishes that he had something to drink, even the awful punch from Camille’s disaster of a party. The game is slipping by very quickly—like sand through his fingers, or smoke. Mike feels like he’s caught in a lucid dream, paralyzed and watching the colors blur. 

When they win, El throws her arms around Camille, who lifts her and spins her around and Mike hears their laughter in his head as a warning. He’s dimly aware that people are on their feet and cheering, that his friends are speaking to him, but it’s all white noise under the single-minded focus it requires to force himself to stand the fuck up and make his way down the field.

“Right, Wheeler,” he mutters to himself, probably looking batshit crazy and not caring one bit. “You’re getting a second chance, don’t fucking blow it. Don’t blow it, don’t blow it, don’t blow it—“

The quarterback is being lifted onto the shoulders of the rest of the team when Mike makes it close enough to the celebrating cheerleaders for El to see him out of the corner of her eye. The girlfriends of a few of the other players are already on the field for some distinctly not G-rated celebration of their own, and Kimberly Evans is wrapped around a pretty girl Mike doesn't know like a vice. They aren't kissing yet, but it's clear they're going to be the second they're away from the eyes of nearly two schools. El turns to look at him without Mike saying a word, her eyes dark and impenetrable. Camille looks up too and gives him a nod that is surprisingly encouraging, almost as good as the shock of alcohol burning down his throat. Every step Mike takes towards El is more of an effort, the motion of his legs mechanical and numb, but she’s walking towards him too, her smile slightly forced. 

"Mike," she greets. It hasn't been that long since they spent time alone together but everything about her still suddenly seems concentrated in a way that is kind of shocking, all the little things about her Mike has been noticing and longing after for weeks in a relief so sharp it is almost painful. His name in her voice is a slap to the face, quavering, breathily sweet, and edged with honeysuckle. “What did you think? Did I do okay?” 

“You were perfect,” Mike blurts, his mouth apparently having mustered more courage than his dumb, terrified head has. “You were completely perfect and…and I don’t want you to date Nate.”

El stops, her face paper white. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with eyes that are suddenly shuttered, and if Mike’s stupid mouth hadn’t already decided to run away from him, he’d probably have lost his nerve at wondering what that expression means. 

"I don't want you to date Nate," he says again, taking another step towards her. He’s close enough to touch her now. “I like you, El. I like you so much it physically hurts and I'd really like to kiss you now, if that’s okay.” 

There is a slight gasp from where Camille and Jenny are watching with rapt, wide eyes, and El makes a small startled noise herself, her eyes shining and obviously wet, and Mike nearly passes out from shock at what he's just said. It wasn't what he'd gone onto the field meaning to say, but maybe years of wishing for that Han Solo swagger have finally given him something back at the most unexpected time, because the words come out smoothly and just shy of truly confident. The only thing that keeps Mike from running away the second his words sink in is that he’s pretty sure his legs would give out if he tried. This time, El is the one to step closer, looking totally wrecked. She wraps her arms around his neck almost in slow motion, and Mike registers every detail of the slickness of her sweat against his skin and the suddenly near flutter of her breath against his mouth with senses so heightened his knees really do buckle from sheer overload of sensation. Her tongue darts out over her lips wet and pink, and his swallow goes down with the reluctance of a dry stone. 

“Mike,” she finally says, straightening. “There really isn’t anything in the world I want more than that.” 

In the end, it isn't he who kisses her or her who kisses him. They meet each other in the middle and their noses bump painfully when their lips brush before Mike adjusts the angle, opening his mouth to take in a fortifying burst of oxygen. El takes it as permission to lick into his mouth, achingly slow and meltingly sweet, his face cupped in the damp cradle of her palms. Mike almost passes out from how _much_ it is before he attempts to mimic her, stroking her tongue with his and shivering at the wet, velvet heat of it. Through the rush of blood in his ears, he can hear wolf-whistles and catcalls from the bleachers, and he doesn't give a flying fuck. El is pressing herself even closer, the soft give of her breasts suddenly present against his chest, and Mike loses all sense of where he is. He probably couldn't even give his own name with a gun cocked to his head, it's so much better than he anticipated, and he had anticipated a lot.

And it’s not perfect. It’s wet and messy and occasionally their mouths don’t quite figure out how to fit together, but it’s El, and every move she makes is enough for Mike to fall apart around her. She teases the surprisingly sensitive rim of his lower lip with her tongue, licks a stripe across his teeth that draws an embarrassing whine from the back of his throat. He follows her lead and either loses or discovers himself, and when they finally come apart for air, he’s not really sure if five minutes or three hours have passed since he let part of her inside of him. El’s mouth is swollen and slick-looking, and Mike reaches out instinctively to run a thumb over the swell of her lower lip. He’s a tiny bit weirded out that some of the moisture that gathers there is his saliva, and a big part of him is completely delighted. He feels almost like they’ve bled into each other in some small, crucial sense, mingled in ways that can’t be untangled. 

“It’s about fucking time,” he hears Camille say fondly, but Mike’s eyes are only for El. 

“Mike,” she finally says huskily, her eyes the darkest he has ever seen them, “If you don’t promise that we can do that again, you might break my heart.” 

“Are you kidding?” Mike laughs, giddy and wild with complete triumph. “I’d be totally happy if we did nothing else for the rest of our lives.” 

He shuts his mouth abruptly when it slips out, because even if he's thinking it he certainly doesn't want El to know that the idea of spending forever with her has become a secret dream. But El only laughs too, brushing her hair behind her ears and drawing him back to her. 

“Kiss me again,” she commands, glimmering with the occasional imperiousness that has featured in more than one of Mike’s guilty late night fantasies. 

He obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so as you can probably tell i decided will should have a boyfriend and wanted to bring back a mileven jealousy element to push things along soooo everyone welcome back nate bass, now will's super cute future husband !! i wanted this story to have some more lgbt representation (i also headcanon jenny is bi and she really would've dated el if el weren't obviously destined for mike) and will deserves all the happiness. if the duffers won't give it to him, i sure as hell am going to make it happen
> 
> sooo how was the kiss?? did it live up to everyone's expectations? is Unexpectedly Suave Mike™ an okay change from Constant Embarrassment Mike™? don't worry if you prefer the later he will be back in spades. el's just been doing most of the work in this relationship and i wanted mike to do something big and romantic because the poor girl deserves some payoff and obviously that payoff was gonna be a huge clichéd romcom moment 
> 
> anyways i hope the kiss was not amiss and i love you guys bunches and am sorry again for the update time !! i'm home again so hopefully i'll be a lil more prompt. your encouragement means the world <3 <3


	9. In Which Mike And El Figure Out The Whole Dating Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy it's been a long time, hasn't it? i'm not going to bore all you lovely people with details, but i've had a lot of bad things happen to me these past however many months, and just felt too bad to write i guess. i still don't feel too great but i finally got a burst of inspiration and y'all deserved this chapter. it's not very well edited bc i don't really have the energy to proofread as thoroughly as i normally try to so please forgive me for any typos 
> 
> anyway it's been a hard time and i've re-read all your comments a lot, and they've made me feel better. i rly appreciate how kind everyone has been to me and this story. i love all you guys so much, and thank you for taking the time to make me feel appreciated <3
> 
> i'm not sure about how the quality is bc it's been a while since i've written mike and el but i hope it turned out okay, and that you all enjoy it. thank you again for being wonderful, and i hope you all had a spooky and fun halloween

Mike almost crashes into a lamppost, a telephone pole, and a mailbox on his ride home from the game. He keeps swerving every time he thinks of El, of the fact that technically her saliva is in his stomach right now, which should be weird and gross but is actually spectacularly cool. Totally tubular, as Dustin would say. The past hour feels like a dream he’s going to wake up from any minute, dazed and clinging desperately to the illusion, because this can’t actually be reality. He, Michael Theodore Wheeler, is not the kind of guy who manages to go up to his dream girl like the male lead in a John Hughes movie and make out with her in front of his whole fucking high school. He’s a Duckie, not a Blaine, and that was one of the movies El wanted to watch with him, and now that they’re…whatever the hell they are, maybe they can also kiss while they watch and he can be reminded that he, unlike Duckie, actually does get his dream girl.

The fact that he’s thinking this deeply about Pretty in Pink should be a warning she’s totally fried his brain. 

“Hi honey, did you have fun at the game?” his mom asks the second he walks through the door, but Mike barely hears her. His face feels molten hot and also weirdly cold, and he can actually feel his nerves jumping under his skin, his hands shaking. He feels like he’s actually going to fucking fly, like he might die if he can’t see El again and make sure this really is real, whatever it is that they have. 

And what is it, really? He kissed her once, but maybe she’ll wake up tomorrow with second thoughts. This doesn’t mean that they’re dating-dating, or anything, and she probably doesn’t want to be his girlfriend. Mike can’t get his hopes up. 

“Sorry mom, I’m beat,” he says absently, and all but charges up the stairs to flop on his bed, the ceiling swimming as he lays there, spread eagle and unbearably jittery. God, he’s not going to be able to sleep until he sees El again, until he knows what to do next. What if he ruined what they already had? What if she does have second thoughts, and decides she doesn’t want to be his friend either? Mike thinks he’ll die if he loses her completely. It’s not just that she’s pretty, and that she makes his stomach flutter, and that she watched Star Wars with him, and that she dealt with his horrifically inconvenient and embarrassing boner with remarkable grace. It’s that strange, cosmic-thread feeling again, that without El some crucial piece of him will be missing. Not even a piece, but a half. He wasn’t complete until he met her and he’ll never be complete again if he loses her. 

Soulmate, his stupid brain whispers, and Mike rolls over with a groan to bury his flushed face in his pillow, feeling like a ridiculous, soppy twelve-year-old girl. 

“Mike?” 

Mike ignores his mom’s voice the first time, but she keeps calling his name with increasing impatience, and eventually he has no choice but to respond. 

“What, mom?”

“Phone for you!”

“Whoever it is, tell them I’m already asleep. I don’t want to talk,” Mike bellows back, his voice muffled by the pillow. At best it’s Will, calling to congratulate him, which Mike’s newfound doubts can’t take, and at worst it’s Dustin or Max, calling to tease the fuck out of him and give him a spectator’s blow-by-blow run-through of the whole thing. Hell, Max probably wants to give him marks on the kiss. A solid 6, too much saliva, but not too much nose bumping for the first attempt. A good start, but more practice is definitely required. 

“But honey, it’s El! Surely you want to talk to her?” 

Mike shoots up like a rocket, heart in his throat. He stampedes back down the stairs and all but yanks the phone from his mom’s hand, face now burning so hot he almost expects his skin to melt the phone. 

“Hello?” he says, breathless. 

“Mike!” El sounds happy. Mike relaxes a little, letting her voice wrap around him. “I hope I’m not interrupting you, or keeping you up by calling?” 

“God, no. You could call me at four in the morning and I’d talk to you. Call me anytime. I mean it,” Mike says automatically. He realizes that this might come off a little over-enthusiastic and creepy, and tries to backtrack. “Um, I mean, you know, if it was an emergency or—”

“Like the Blondie song!” says El before he can ramble, then sings into the phone. “Call me, call me, my love, call me any, anytime, call me. I love that song. I’d do the same for you, Mike. I just had to talk to you. I love talking to you.” 

Her singing voice really is just as nice as her speaking. Mike sighs dreamily into the phone. His mom is looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m just gonna take this up to my room, okay?” he tells her. 

“Talk to your girlfriend, sweetheart. It’s not a school night, after all. I’m going to bed. Love you!” 

“Love you too,” Mike says, and takes the phone up to his room. 

“Sorry,” he says into the receiver, flopping on his stomach and feeling once again like a twelve-year-old girl, Nancy in her most boy crazy days. He could be a teenager in a cartoon with a big thought bubble over his head declaring “Oh my god, my crush is calling me!” in bubble gum letters. He doesn’t mind the feeling at all now that El’s with him. “Just saying good night to my mom. I really wanted to talk to you too.” 

Unless she meant something bad by ‘had to talk to you’? Maybe she’s preemptively breaking up with him before they ever even officially go out, or telling him that just because she kissed him doesn’t mean she wants to date him. But the Blondie thing was pretty cheerful, and adorable, and maybe she just wants to talk to him because she likes him. Maybe everything is going to be just fucking fine, and he should stop fretting like the heroine of a gothic novel. 

“I’m glad,” El says, “because I wanted to make sure things wouldn’t get, you know, awkward. Because of what happened.” 

Just like that, dread returns to Mike’s stomach tenfold. He almost feels like he’s going to throw up for a moment.

“Oh?” he manages to choke out. El had left after their kiss pretty quickly with the explanation that Hop was waiting for her (he hadn’t attended the actual game, thank fucking god), but now Mike’s wondering if maybe she hadn’t just wanted to get away from him. 

“You know, I love being friends with you so much, and I don’t want that to change just because we…” El trails off, and Mike can almost feel her blush through the phone. His stomach plummets even more. 

“Um, you want to be friends, then?” he hears himself say, eyes burning. A moment’s silence.

“What?” El finally says, sounding confused. “Well, yes, but I want to kiss you too. I just want to make sure we can do both.” 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Mike nearly groans in relief, unthinking. “I mean, you know, just because I love being your friend, and I also really, really liked kissing you, and really want to do it again, and, um. Does this—are we,” he breaks off, gathers his nerves. “Do you want to date?” 

El is quiet for another moment. Then she laughs her gentle, tinkling laugh, no malice in it at all. It settles Mike’s poor, anxious stomach with the fizzy feeling of champagne bubbles on New Year’s Eve, and he smiles against the phone like a lovesick idiot, really kind of loving her in a way so present and deep it’s terrifying. 

“Yes, Mike,” she says, all that shyness melting away again. Mike loves confident El, loves that note of command in her voice, the idea that she has secret power she’s only showing him because she trusts him. He sighs again, dazzled by her. “I don’t generally let boys I don’t want to date stick their tongues in my mouth.” 

Mike chokes, blushing furiously, and El laughs again. He gathers himself admirably. 

“And yet you let Jennifer Hayes stick hers anywhere she pleases,” he grumbles, half-teasing. 

“Only thirty seconds, and I’m not planning on doing it again,” Ell assures him, her voice suddenly velvety. “That honor is for you alone, Michael Wheeler. You can stick your tongue anywhere you please.” 

She sounds shocked by her own daring, and Mike shifts, his jeans suddenly feeling a little too tight, surprised and aroused in equal parts. He really, really loves this teasing, coy version of El, but he doesn’t really know how to respond to her, though he does have a few ideas of places he’d like to stick his tongue. 

“Careful what promises you make,” he finally says, breathless. “I take them very seriously, you know.” 

“I know you do,” El says warmly. “God, I still can’t believe—it was like something I’d dreamed. Like one of my favorite movies. Thank you, Mike. It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell Jenny she needs to up her game,” says Mike, feeling like Han Solo. El laughs again. 

“Poor Jenny. To be fair, I don’t think I’d like being kissed by anyone as much as I liked being kissed by you.” 

Mike’s grin is ear splitting. He’s so happy he can’t even speak for a minute. 

“Even Patrick Swayze?” 

“Even him,” El promises, solemn as anything. “’Night, Mike. I’ll see you Monday.” 

“Good night, El,” Mike says, his tongue suddenly loose and reckless. The warmth unfurling inside him seems to be threatening eternity. Mike really doesn’t mind. “Lo—” he stops himself just in time, his true thoughts almost slipping out, another ill-timed ‘as you wish’. “Looks like I can actually look forward to school, for once,” he hastily says, congratulating himself on his smooth recovery. 

“I’m glad it’s because of me. ‘Night,” El says again, and hangs up. 

Mike drops the phone. He collapses again, feeling like he’s just run a marathon, his heart still fluttering. Love you, he mouths at the ceiling, feeling like he has to confess the thought to somebody, take his almost-mistake to some kind of completion. It really is true. He loves her, and now he kind of sort of has her. His dream girl. 

Mike’s never been more terrified in his whole life. 

Mike purposefully arrives at school late Monday morning, so he can avoid seeing anyone he knows before class. He regrets his decision when he bursts into homeroom five minutes late and is immediately confronted with the shocked, curious eyes of every single member of his class. It takes all of ten minutes for the person next to him to nudge him until he grabs the note being offered. 

Nice one, Wheeler! Didn’t know you had it in you. Bet she’s secretly a freak in the sack. 

Mike whirls around, looking for the writer, and immediately gets a wink from Mark Roland. Nice, he mouths. Mike glares back. 

The thing is that he’s almost dreading seeing El. Not because he doesn’t like seeing her, but because he has no idea how to behave around her at school, now that they’re supposed to be dating and stuff. When it’s just him and her over the phone, or even alone in his basement, Mike imagines it will all work itself out just fine. They’ll just do what they always do, only with more touching, which is completely ideal to be honest. But in school, things are different. Mike’s seen all kinds of couples—the ones that make out aggressively in front of lockers that usually don’t belong to them, staking their claims on each other, the ones that get into very public fights in front of the whole cafeteria, dragging everyone else into their drama, the sappy ones that are always buying each other flowers and chocolates and making grand, obnoxious declarations of love—and he doesn’t know what kind of couple El expects them to be. Mike doesn’t want to fall into any of those categories, and the idea of trying to publicly announce El is his fills him with total dread. It’s kind of gross, and Mike might as well piss all over her like a dog marking its territory if they’re going to be one of those weird, controlling, possessive couples. 

He wants it to still be them, Mike-and-El, in their own little world and not caring what anyone thinks. He also wants El to be happy. If she wants him to stuff her locker with roses, he will. Mike just doesn’t know how to ask her what she wants. He doesn’t even know how to greet her. Can he just kiss her now, whenever he feels like it? 

To his surprise, he runs into Camille before El, bumping into her in the passing period before English. 

“Gotta say, Wheeler, that was pretty sick. Didn’t know you had it in you,” she greets, smirking at him. Mike just glowers back, not in the mood to be teased. Camille squints at him, examining him more closely. “You look like you don’t know what you’re doing,” she observes, leaning back against the nearest locker. 

“I do too know what I’m doing,” Mike snaps, lying. Camille rolls her eyes. 

“Do not. I mean, have you ever been in a real relationship before? Hell, had you ever even kissed anyone before her?” 

Mike just purses his lips. That seems to be all the answer Camille needs. 

“Look, Wheeler, Ellie likes you the way you are. She likes the nerdy little dynamic you already have going on, fuck knows why. Just treat her like you normally would, only maybe kiss her on the cheek when you see her, just to let her know things are different enough. Simple as that.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows, actually feeling a little bit calmer. It’s genuinely good advice. He thinks he can muster the courage to kiss her on the cheek. 

“I just,” he starts, surprised at how much he wants to talk to Camille about this, because he really cares about her opinion. Fancy that. “Don’t know how to proceed, you know? How fast we move, how to stop feeling like I’m pushing my luck by even touching her. I like her so fucking much. I don’t want to ruin that, but I also don’t want her to think I don’t want her.” 

Camille purses her lips, looking thoughtful. Her face lights up, and Mike looks at her warily, not liking the glint in her eyes. 

“You know what you guys need? A party,” she announces. Mike immediately groans. Camille ploughs on, not paying any attention. “No, really. I did promise to throw a Mike And El Finally Made Out Party, and I wasn’t joking. It’ll be different from the last one, obviously. I’ll only invite truly cool people, and we can play drinking games and stuff. I bet all that shyness will melt right the fuck away when you get the chance to do body shots off of El.” 

“That really, really doesn’t seem like a good idea,” says Mike, who actually isn’t sure he knows what a body shot is. “El might not like that, after what happened last time.” 

“Well, I’ll ask her first, obviously,” Camille says, rolling her eyes again. “Do you think I’m a totally shit friend? But you fuckers definitely need some serious encouragement from an outside source if you’re ever going to make out again by the time you’re eighty. It literally took weeks of convincing before you could work up the courage to kiss her.” 

“Camille,” Mike sighs, dread knotting in his stomach, “I really don’t want—” 

She shushes him. 

“Look, at least see what she says first.” She pauses, looking almost bashful. Mike stares. It’s about as alien of an expression on her as Mike imagines sadness would be. The idea of a crying Camille is almost as terrifying as angry one. At least he has experience with the latter. “Besides, I kind of want to invite Dustin, like, really badly, or whatever. Last party was supposed to go differently. And if you tell anyone that, I’ll fucking kill you.” 

“Can’t you just talk to him? Like you kept telling me to?” Mike asks, genuinely curious. Camille scoffs, blushing slightly. 

“Whatever, I’m a bit of a hypocrite, fucking sue me. Anyway, no, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Mike asks, honestly baffled. Camille purses her lips at him.

“Look, just because I’m, like, super hot or whatever doesn’t mean I don’t get nervous. I’m afraid I’m gonna scare him off unless there’s, like, already an atmosphere to put him at ease, you know? You guys are the perfect excuse. Plus, anytime you two are together you can practically smell sex in the air. C’mon, Wheeler, help a girl out. I helped you, remember? It won’t even be a party, really. More like a gathering among friends, but with, like, alcohol, obviously.” 

Mike sighs again, considering. He remembers that Camille was, in fact, the one to finally break through all his layers of doubt and self-flagellation and finally convince him to make a move on El. He remembers her kicking Troy out of her house, coming to sit with them even though she’s the most popular girl in their grade, treating Dustin and the rest of the party like actual human beings and not a collection of gross slugs low on the social ladder. Sure, she could be a bitch, but it’s an equal-opportunity bitchiness, and honestly, Mike can respect her for that. It’s better than Stacey’s selective snobbery. Plus, Mike remembers all too well what it’s like to have a crush on someone obviously out of his league, and if El had made a move on him, he may well have been so terrified it was all some elaborate prank he might have ran away and ruined his chances forever. He can imagine Dustin doing the same. The mental gymnastics of the self-hating dweeb can accomplish miraculous things.

He doesn’t want to deprive Dustin of his chance to get his dream girl, and at the end of the day Camille is kind of his real friend now. Enduring another one of her parties isn’t really that big of a favor to ask. Besides, Mike will be there with El, for real this time. He’ll be able to kiss her, and put his hand around her waist, maybe, and he doesn’t really know what a body shot is, but he’s totally down for figuring it out with her…

“Wheeler? Wheeler? Hey, snap out of it!” Fingers snap in front of his face and Mike blinks. Camille is glaring at him, and the bell is ringing. “Look, fuckwad, you made me late. No time for whatever wet dream you’re in the throes of. Give me an answer.” 

“Look, if El’s okay with it, I guess I can be too. But you have to ask her first,” Mike says with all the sternness he can muster, trying to avoid blushing at how obvious his line of thought had been. 

“Groovy. I’m going to class. See you at lunch, loser.” Camille flashes him a surprisingly dorky peace sign as she retreats, her smile crooked. Mike blinks, absent-mindedly watching her sashay her way down the now-empty hall. It’s funny to think that a girl like that could be insecure at all. For the first time, Mike feels connected to her through something other than friendship with El. He definitely knows what it’s like to be scared to go after what you want, even when all the signs are pointing in the right directions. 

He’s so distracted by Camille, he doesn’t really notice the looks he’s continuing to get until the lunch bell rings. Then, Lydia Smith (She who solicited that fateful sloppy joe accident that led him and El onto the path of actually dating, for which Mike will forever be slightly grateful to her no matter how much of a bitch she is) comes up to him, a gaggle of friends behind her. 

“So, Frogface,” she starts, almost friendly. “Never in a thousand years would I have pegged you as the type to do something like that. It was pretty romantic.” 

“Um,” Mike says, feeling like he’s stumbling through a dream. Frogface almost sounds like an endearment now, and the way she’s smiling at him is…coy? Mike shudders, hoping he’s misinterpreting; the aftershocks kissing El making him actually feel desirable, deluding himself positively for a change. 

“It totally was,” one of the friends enthuses, “like something out of a movie. The way you just ran up to her and…” The whole group breaks off in a deluge of gushy sighs. Mike fidgets, desperately wishing he could just leave. El’s actually probably going to be waiting for him, and god, Mike wants to see her so fucking badly. 

“Uh, thanks, I guess? I should get going—” 

“So, are you guys actually dating now?” Lydia asks, popping her gum. 

Mike falters. They are, but maybe El doesn’t want to tell people about it? Anyway, Mike has no desire to discuss this with Lydia Smith. He’d rather dissect a hundred frogs. 

“That’s something I’d rather keep private, if you don’t mind,” he says, letting his voice go slightly frosty and hoping they’ll get the message. 

“Aw, he’s shy,” the same gushy friend coos, and Mike can actually feel a nerve twitch in his jaw. He does not want to be doing this when he could be talking (and kissing! And hand holding! And doing all sorts of physical contact things!) with El, his now actual, real life girlfriend. “That’s adorable.” 

“Thanks,” Mike says sarcastically. “I’m going to go now, and see her, actually, so if you don’t mind…” 

“She’s a total prude you know, Wheeler,” says Lydia, not listening to him at all. “Like, half the football team wanted to get into her pants, but she literally probably wears a chastity belt. She’s a fucking nun. I mean, if you’re into that, that’s cool, but if you actually want to not die a virgin, you might want to look at other options.” 

Mike actually sees red. He clenches his fists hard enough for his nails to nearly draw blood from his palms, reminding himself that punching Lydia Smith in the face is almost certainly going to get him suspended, and will cut back on the time he gets to see El significantly. 

“Cool,” he forces himself to say, as biting as he can, “thanks for the advice. I didn’t ask, and I really don’t care, but still, very helpful. I’m going to go now. Bye.” 

He storms away, his ears buzzing with a strange combination of lingering annoyance, adrenaline, and anticipation. 

“Nice one, Wheeler!” someone calls, some meathead on one of the sports teams, and someone else tries to high five him in the cafeteria, but Mike doesn’t respond. The next time it happens, the person actually touching his shoulder, Mike whirls around with a snarl, sick to fucking death about being kept from El by a bunch of nosey, gossipy assholes who didn’t give a shit what happened to him until he found himself in the company of a cheerleader. 

“Look, I really just want to actually see El, so if you could not—”

Mike breaks off abruptly. El’s standing there, her hand still hovering from where she’d touched him, her head slightly cocked in confusion. Mike’s relief is an absolute flood.

“Oh, thank god it’s you,” he breathes, beaming at her. “You have no idea how many people have been giving me shit. I thought you were one of them.” 

“People have been giving me a hard time too,” El agrees, nodding seriously. “I completely understand. I just wanted to find you before you sat down. I was thinking maybe we could go outside, eat lunch together, maybe? I don’t think I want to be in the cafeteria. Everyone will be staring.” 

“Good point,” says Mike. “Wanna get out of here then?” 

“Yes please,” says El, grabbing his hand and dimpling at him. 

It’s starting to get genuinely nippy out, and El shivers in spite of the sweater she’s wearing the second they’re outside. Mike, lacking a jacket to lend, wraps an arm around her without thinking. He shivers himself for different reasons when she leans into his touch like they’ve done this a thousand times with each other, as natural as breathing. The grass on the field is already starting to suffer from the oncoming winter, going patchy and colorless in large swaths, but the sky is a clean, watery blue, and El’s hair is fluttering in the slight breeze, and Mike couldn’t think of a more perfect lunch if he tried. They end up sitting in a grove of trees at the corner of the field, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled streams. 

“I was thinking,” El says, leaning against the back of a tree. There’s something magical about this little spot, and Mike feels wrapped up in the atmosphere, cocooned safely with her in a place where the rest of the world can’t touch them. 

“A dangerous activity, that,” he replies, biting into his sandwich. “Got me into lots of trouble.” 

“Really?” El leans forward on her elbows, eyes sparkling. Mike feels about twenty feet tall under that look, like he can be everyone he’s ever idolized so long as she keeps looking at him like that. 

“Yep,” he says. “I started thinking about this girl who was totally out of my league. A cheerleader, but a really nice one, and she was smart, and funny, and the prettiest person I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t get her out of my head. I kept thinking that I didn’t have a chance at all, that she’d never look twice at me. I almost blew it.” 

El blushes, the corner of her mouth quirking up. 

“Good thing she was thinking about you just as much,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning even farther forward. 

“Lucky me,” Mike breathes, his stomach in knots. El leans close enough to his mouth to kiss him, then feints to the left at the last minute, her lips brushing his cheek. 

“Tease,” Mike says warmly, not minding at all. El shrugs, plucking a grape from her own lunch and popping it between her teeth 

“Later, when you don’t taste like ham,” she says. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking. Are you free after school, today?” 

“Totally,” says Mike, with way too much enthusiasm as usual, and immediately backtracks. Same old, same old. “I mean, you know, I usually hang out with one of the guys or whatever before I go straight home, but I’d rather do something with you. Not unless you want to, obviously! If you’re busy, then I can make myself not free, or—”

“Mike, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to see you,” El tells him gently. “I have practice, but if you don’t mind waiting I was thinking…” she trails off, ducking her eyes. Mike waits for a minute, but she doesn’t continue. 

“Come on, El, you’re going to kill me with anticipation, here,” he says. “Whatever it is, my answer’s yes.” 

Isn’t that the fucking truth. Still, it makes El look up again, still blushing. 

“Careful what you say yes to,” she breathes. “I could have said anything.” 

“El,” Mike starts, throwing caution to the wind entirely. “I don’t think you understand. You could literally say that you wanted to bring me to a bunch of Satanists as a virgin sacrifice so they could summon, like, Cthulhu, and I would totally do it as long as you were there. Anything, for you.” 

He makes himself shut up, stewing silently while he waits for El’s response. Mike’s not sure if he’s more embarrassed that he told her he was a virgin out loud (he’s implied it, obviously, but saying the words is different), that he used a weird gross metaphor about Satanism to tell her that he’d literally let himself be killed to be around her a little longer, or that the whole thing in general was just really needy, and desperate, and basically amounted to the “I love you” he’d almost said over the phone, and still kind of wants to blurt out right now. 

“No Satanists,” says El finally. She glances up at him through lowered lashes, a look Mike knows from every Disney movie he’s seen with Holly means she’s definitely not displeased with him. “I actually just wanted to ask you on a date.” 

Mike stills, listening to his own breaths. A date. Because they are, of course, dating. But for the first time, it’s occurred to him that what they’ve been doing this past month—the movie nights in his basement, the lunches together, him going to her practice, the library—are all kind of date-ish things to do. A sudden intuition hits him over the head like a bowling ball that he’s kind of been halfway dating El this whole fucking time, and was just being really, really stupid and oblivious about it. Camille was right. Literally everyone except him was right, and he is the stupidest person to ever live. 

“A date,” he repeats, stunned. He remembers his vision when she asked to talk to him the Monday after the party of malts and fries in a 50’s style diner—or just Benny’s for that matter. What other kinds of dates to people go on? Mike tries to remember the stuff Nancy did when she was dating Steve Harrington (her and Jonathan are in college and living together, which is a situation so out of the realm of Mike’s experience he can’t find a single way to make it applicable to him and El) and falls embarrassingly short. “Like a movie? In the theater?” he asks when he realizes she might interpret that as another Basement Movie. 

“Movies are good,” El agrees, “but I was kind of thinking somewhere where we can talk. I don’t just want to sit in the dark in silence. I want to, um. You know, see you. And all that.” 

“Benny’s?” Mike tries again, trying not to obviously preen at the fact that being able to look at him is one of El’s requirements for an ideal date. El shakes her head immediately. 

“No,” she says. “I went there with Nate. I want to go somewhere new with you.” 

Mike resists the instinctive wave of jealousy that rises up in him. Even though he knows Nate is into Will now (and ain’t that still a hell of a plot twist), the possessive, caveman side of his brain can’t resist seeing him as a threat. 

“Arcade?” Mike suggests. 

“Soon, but not today. You’ll have to teach me, and we won’t get to do much else,” El says, waving a fly away from her face with a lazy hand. Mike tracks the movement, looks at her heavy-lidded eyes, shaded dark and mellow by the weight of her lashes. He kind of wishes lunch would never end, that this could be their date. Just sitting under the trees and watching her fall under the spell of that late-afternoon lethargy, talking a little, maybe even closing his eyes and dozing and knowing she’s nearby. 

“Do you want to just go somewhere and do this some more? It’s nice being outside,” Mike finally says. El’s eyes open a little more. 

“That sounds perfect, actually,” she says. “It’s nice around the quarry. Maybe we can just go and sit up there.” 

It does sound perfect. Mike buzzes in anticipation for it the rest of the school day, wishing he had classes with El. Just being able to look at her feels vital, and he can barely concentrate. He was planning on doing his math homework at her practice but the second he’s settled on the bleachers El glances up at him from the field with that weird sixth-sense she seems to have, waving. Mike can’t make out her face clearly, but he knows her well enough to know by the shape of her smile that her dimple is probably popping. He waves back dopily and spends the rest of practice watching her over his math textbook in dreamy daze, occasionally catching himself sighing whenever she does anything especially cool. 

When practice is over Mike practically bounds down the bleachers, having completed approximately two percent of his math homework, and runs to El. She’s beaming at him, her hair frizzing in her ponytail and her skirt seeming even shorter than before. 

“You were great!” he immediately enthuses. El’s eyes are filled with something Mike thinks might be hope, and he trusts the instinct, ducking down to peck her on the lips. He swoons a little when they make contact, feeling like he’s gone down the biggest drop on a rollercoaster. He can’t believe that he’s actually allowed to do that now. El is smiling even more broadly when he pulls away. 

“Does your mom know where you’ll be tonight?” she asks, grabbing his hand. 

“I go home with Will a lot, so she’ll just assume I’m there,” Mike says, not wanting to talk about his mom when he could be taking El on an actual date. Her brow furrows, an adorable little wrinkle Mike wants to smooth out with his fingers.

“Oh. Will it be okay if she finds out you’re with me?” 

“She adores you El. She’d probably be cool if I spontaneously married you.” 

There is a long silence in which El looks shocked and Mike desperately wishes he could keep his stupid fucking mouth shut. 

“Um, you know, not that that would be a thing that would happen. Ever. If you don’t want it too? Let’s just forget I said it,” he rambles, trying to smile through his torment. “Bad joke. What about the Chief.” 

“Um, I kind of told him I was hoping to do something with you today. He was okay with it. I was just going to go home with Camille or Jenny if you said no.” El bites her lip, her cheeks glowing pink. Mike feels slightly better. 

“Like I ever would,” he scoffs, squeezing her hand. “Much as I wish I had a limo for the occasion, I’m afraid it’s going to have to be the bike, if that’s cool with you.” 

“I love the bike,” El says firmly. “I love—” She breaks off, coloring, and Mike’s heart swells with hope. 

“Come on. Let’s go to the quarry,” he says. 

“You kids have fun!” Camille calls after them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and remember to use protection!” 

Mike flips her off. Her laugh follows them out of the field and into the now nearly empty-parking lot, where his bike is waiting.

El clings to him more tightly than ever on the way to the quarry, eventually resting her chin on his shoulder. Mike has to lean back to allow her to reach comfortably, and it’s kind of an awkward position, but it still feels like one of the best things to ever happen to him. Even crashing the bike wouldn’t bring him down from his high. The sun is already setting, and Mike frets that El is going to ask to be taken home, not wanting to be alone with him outside after dark. 

“Guess it’s getting darker faster,” he says with forced casualness, praying silently that El’s not going to back out. 

“It is,” El agrees. “We get to watch the sunset.” Mike relaxes. 

The sky is on fire by the time they get to the lip of the quarry, the water reflecting brilliant swaths of fractured light. El hops off the bike with a grace Mike envies and walks to the overhang, her figure silhouetted and diminutive against the blazing remnants of the sun. Something awed and frightened clenches inside Mike. She looks so small, and suddenly it’s all too easy to see her going one step too far and falling, falling, falling. 

“El!” he calls, running forward. “Caref—” 

Mike slips, sprawling hard on the rock, his knees stinging. El’s turned at the sound of his voice and runs to his side immediately, crouching beside him. 

“Mike! Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Mike says, sitting up reluctantly, wanting to hide his embarrassed face in the dirt. He wipes at his scraped cheek. “Guess I should’ve been warning myself to be careful instead of you.”

“That was a close one,” says El, smoothing down his shirt with small, fretful movements. “If you’d been closer to the edge—” 

Mike gulps, imagining what it would be like to fall like that, to be suspended for long enough to know that you were going to die upon impact and not being able to do anything about it. 

“Better me than you,” he says, forcing a laugh. “Would serve me right for having the balance of a one-year-old.” 

“No, not better. I don’t know what I would do,” El says quietly. She falls silent, that far-away look in her eyes. When she glances up again, her gaze falls on his cheek. “Oh, you’re hurt. I bet that stings.” 

“A little,” Mike says truthfully. 

“Did you get your knees too?” 

“Yeah,” he admits. 

“Want me to kiss it better?” El asks. Mike can’t tell if she’s joking, but she still has that soft sincerity to her voice, and his cheek really does sting. He nods mutely, his whole body trembling slightly in sudden anticipation. 

“Roll up your jeans,” El orders, and Mike does so immediately, gulping. He doesn’t have time to be self-conscious about his skinny, hairy calves before El is leaning over one angry red knee, her lips pressing damp and cool against the abrasion. Truth be told, the kiss stings slightly too, but it's nothing compared to the way Mike’s skin sings upon contact, his nerves strung tight and vibrating with tension, his face burning with a ferocity to rival the setting sun. El leans back on her heels, eyes so dark pupil and iris blend together, her lashes lowered. 

“Other knee,” she almost-whispers. Mike can only nod again, a lump in his throat. He’s hyper aware of the sound of his breathing when she kisses his other knee, his breath whistling and labored like he’s finished running a marathon. He can’t seem to get it under control. It’s such a strange, intimate feeling, like El seeing his knees is the same thing as seeing him naked. Mike feels like a virginal Victorian lady flashing an ankle at her handsome beau. He tries to conceal his mingled relief and disappointment when she pulls away, her skin glowing faintly orange, the sky having cooled into deep, dusky pinks. 

“Your cheek too,” El says, and just like that Mike is back to unbearable suspense that worsens even more when she gently touches his chin, turning his face so his scraped cheek is facing her. She’s kissed him there before, but not like this, lingering enough that Mike can almost anticipate the slow opening of her mouth, how that might feel against other parts of his skin. 

“Oldest remedy in the book,” Mike says when she’s finished, just to break some of the tension. “You do it better than my mom, though.” 

El doesn’t respond. Instead, she kisses him on the mouth, leaning back almost immediately to look at him questioningly. Mike can only nod again, and that’s all it takes for her to kiss him for real, slipping his lower lip between hers, Mike feeling the slightest nudge of her teeth before she’s slipping her tongue inside again, both of them still sitting in the dirt and El’s uniform probably getting all dusty. Mike wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, drawn like a moth to a flame to the promise of her body heat, the suggestion of real skin underneath fabric, flaming under his touch. El lets herself be drawn close until she’s practically in his lap. Mike knows this is probably going to end in more embarrassment for him, but he’s already popped that particular cherry with her, albeit unintentionally, and how can he give much of a fuck when her mouth is working against his with sweet insistence, reaching for exactly what she wants?

El breaks the kiss to breathe, tucking her face into Mike’s neck so he can feel the humid flutter of it, in and out. He jolts when he feels her kiss him there, once, twice. 

“Can I—?” she asks. 

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, and El’s tongue is there again, lapping at his skin like she’s tasting him, and Mike is instantly so turned on it’s physically painful. Her mouth seals against the same place, and when she first sucks Mike groans, unprepared for how good it is, how such an inconspicuous part of his body can flutter with so much feeling. Even the noises she’s making switch something on inside him, little wet suctioning sounds that feel like a secret she’s sharing with him, something no one else will get the chance to hear. El stops to adjust herself so that she has a leg on either side of him, half kneeling and half sitting on him, ever so slightly taller in this position. Mike loves looking up at her, at feeling like she could do anything to him. 

“Okay?” she asks, her hips rolling once against his. Mike flinches at how close it takes him to the edge, suddenly aware that he’s going to be in very real danger of totally humiliating himself and making a mess if he lets her do this anymore. 

“Very, very okay,” he says, sliding a hand up her back to where her hair rests, letting his fingers get tangled in her curls. “A little too okay, actually.” 

El frowns, confused. 

“Oh, um…sorry?” she asks, and Mike dies a little inside knowing he’s going to have to offer more explanation or risk El thinking she did something wrong. 

“It feels too good,” he manages to get out, determinedly not looking at her. “I’m not super confident I’m going to, uh. You know, last.” 

“Oh,” El says, still confused. Mike can see the moment it clicks into place, her face glowing pink even in the dark. “Oh.” 

“I’m really sorry,” Mike says, feeling like he’s overstepped a very crucial line with his stupid, inexperienced, over-eager body. “It’s not your fault at all it’s just…you know, I’ve never done anything like this before with anyone else. I wasn’t expecting it to feel so—I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” El says, pecking him on the lips. “You’ll get plenty of practice. I mean, if you’re up to it.” 

“Boy, am I,” Mike says dryly, trying to wrap his brain around just how awesome ‘plenty of practice’ is going to be. “I’m sure you could tell.” 

“I was a little wrapped up in things myself,” admits El, still blushing. She hesitates again, biting her lip. “Oh. I just realized I’m still sweaty. I’m sorry, that’s gross.” 

“It really, really isn’t,” Mike reassures her with a little too much sincerity. It only makes her smile again. 

“Maybe I can borrow your sweatshirt again,” she teases, then glances up at the sky. “I guess it is pretty dark. We should probably go back. It’s going to get cold.” 

As if on cue she shivers, and Mike hugs her more tightly, willing his overabundance of body heat to transfer to her. Her uniform really doesn’t consist of very much fabric, and her sweater isn’t nearly thick enough to compensate. 

“Oh man, that’s not very chivalrous of me. If we come out here again I’ll bring something for you. Promise.” 

“At least I have you. You’re very warm,” says El, snuggling into him. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a lot of time.” 

“Well, there’s always Friday, if you want to watch a movie again, or something,” Mike offers, heart thudding with nerves. 

“I’d love that,” El says. She squints at his neck. “I hope I didn’t leave a mark. I’m sure you don’t want a hickey.” 

Mike’s body jumps to inform him that he’d like a hickey from El very, very much. He swallows, willing himself to calm the fuck down. 

“Either way is totally fine. It’s not like I can’t cover it. It is scarf season,” he says with faux nonchalance, trying very hard not to let her know just how much he likes the idea of her marking him. Mike wouldn’t mind if she wanted to tattoo Property of El Hopper on his chest. He untangles himself from abruptly before his body betrays him again, offering a hand and pulling her up. 

“Come on, I’ll take you home.” 

El gives him directions to the Hopper house, shivering slightly against his back. The ride goes by far too quickly. When they arrive and El dismounts, Mike sighs deeply, trying to abate the sense of crushing loss. He just has to keep reminding himself that there is going to be another time. Many more, if things keep going as well as they are. Mike can’t bring himself to be overly optimistic on that front, given his extraordinary ability for constantly fucking up. 

“Thank you for taking me home,” El says politely. “I had a really nice time. I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” 

“You bet,” says Mike, mournful in spite of his efforts. Maybe it’s imagination, but El seems reluctant to leave too, looking at him thoughtfully. She glances at the windows, which are dark, then ducks in to kiss him once more, her hands cupping his face. 

“Look up,” she whispers in his ear. Mike glances upwards.

“Stars,” she says. The sky is velvety and moonless, and the stars seem the brightest Mike has ever seen them, like Christmas lights strung up in the heavens. “Make a wish?” El asks. 

“I thought that was the first star you see,” Mike breathes. El smiles again, drawing back slightly.

“Well, you know me. I’m very punk, breaking all the rules,” she says sweetly. “Want to know what I wished for?” 

“I thought if you tell me it won’t come true,” Mike says, though he really does want to know. Her smile curves into something secretive. 

“Breaking all the rules, remember?” she says. “I wished that you would kiss me every day this week, so it’s in your power to make it come true.” 

“I think we can make that happen,” Mike agrees, his throat tight at how much he feels like he’s holding back, at how his feelings always seem like they’re threatening to expel themselves messily at any second, like the chestburster in Alien. 

“Make a wish, Mike,” is El’s response. “’Night, Mike. See you Monday.” 

And with that she leaves, not glancing back again before she disappears into the house. Mike watches her, his legs seeming too heavy to pedal, feeling conspicuously lovestruck and vaguely sick to his stomach. He glances at the stars again. 

Mike does make a wish, and if it’s ridiculous and impossible, well, no one needs to know that except him. He doesn’t believe in breaking every rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know mike wished for el to be his beautiful wife one day so they can have lots of beautiful mileven babies and a dog and a grumpy cat and movie nights every friday for the rest of his life, bc he's a soppy boy. 
> 
> i hope this was okay!! i'm not sure how many ppl are gonna be reading after the long hiatus between chapters but i hope those of you who do enjoy <3 <3


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